


Floriography

by lbmisscharlie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, F/M, Flowers, Infidelity, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-24
Updated: 2011-08-24
Packaged: 2017-10-23 01:02:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lbmisscharlie/pseuds/lbmisscharlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Florist!AU - Sherlock is a florist and he's doing the flowers at the wedding of John Watson and Mary Morstan. John's about to marry his best friend in the world. He's happy, in love, and content with Mary. So why can't he get tall, enigmatic man who did the flowers at his wedding out of his mind?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by the amazing and patient [non_canonical](http://archiveofourown.org/users/non_canonical/pseuds/non_canonical)  
> Summary: Written for [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/8651.html?thread=38213835#t38213835) at the kinkmeme wishing for an _[Imagine Me and You](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0421994/)_ fusion. Think of this as the director's cut: edited, expanded, with brand-new scenes! I've chaptered it for ease of reading, but it's complete as of posting.

It’s his wedding day. His _wedding day_. He stands outside the chapel, tightly wound and full of nervous energy. His best man, Bill, hands him a boutonniere and as he pins it to his lapel he wonders briefly at the unconventional choice of a sprig of lilacs; their heady scent taking him back to springtime as a child, having jousting matches and pirate adventures with the sweet – and bossy – girl next door.

Mary. They had remained friends through university, through his years at medical school and hers at university as a postgraduate, writing long emails to each other during his deployment. It wasn’t until he was sent back with a busted shoulder and a limp that their friendship blossomed into something else. The moment he was allowed visitors, she burst into his hospital ward and flung her arms around him, her lips pressed against his in desperation, fear, and relief. He remembers thinking at that moment how nice it would be to spend the rest of his life with his best friend.

So here he is. Ten minutes and one long aisle away from the rest of his life. He fingers the ring in his pocket and finds he’s not nervous at all.

++

In the back of her parents’ car, Mary drums her fingers impatiently against her bottom lip. Outside the window, the oak-shaded homes of Marylebone Street pass. She thinks wryly of the bridal magazines she’d read and their advice for butterflies in the stomach and cold feet; she has neither. All she feels is excitement: to see John in his tux – he’d rejected wearing mess dress and she’d agreed, knowing his unease about his army past – to say her vows, to drink champagne and dance with her husband and retire, dizzy, drunk and in love, to a too-smart hotel room and collapse into bed and order midnight room service.

Sometimes she feels like her life has been one long adventure with the same ever-present co-conspirator. The first time they met Mary had shoved John into the grass and gotten a time-out for her troubles. They had just moved and she was angry, so angry, that this stupid boy, with his skinned knees and his rugby shirt, wasn’t her best friend and next-door neighbour Judith. It had taken a few weeks, but when she walked into her yard one day and saw him perched in the big oak tree between their houses, she thought he might not be too bad. She had climbed the tree and he had never once told her she couldn’t because she was _just a girl_ , like other boys at school, but had called out the best hand-holds as she climbed and grinned when she reached him.

He was her best, her most important constant. With the tearful call from his mother – _attack – shot – hospital – unconscious_ – the drop of her stomach and the grip on her heart made her realize that one word. _Love_. They fell like they did everything else – breathless and excited and together. And now, a wedding. An excuse for a party and a big white dress, really. She already knows she wants to spend the rest of her life with him.

Next to Mary, her bridesmaids sit, Molly touching up her lipstick and Sally adjusting the strap of her dress. In the front seat John’s 8-year-old sister, Harry, fidgets, alternately twisting around to look at them and kicking her trainer-clad feet against the bottom of her seat. A floral comb is already falling out of her dark blonde hair and her taffeta dress is wrinkled. As usual, she’s keeping up a steady running commentary, describing the buildings they pass and people in the other cars. Mary’s mum, Elizabeth, keeps her eyes on the road, patiently _mmmhmm_ -ing Harry’s comments.

The car pulls up to St. Marylebone Church; hefting the heavy skirt of her dress, Mary climbs out after Sally and Molly. John’s mother, Joan, meets them, one hand holding Harry’s shiny patent shoes, which had been left behind that morning. She manages to get Harry to almost stand still for a minute; the girl hops on one foot while Joan patiently struggles with the tiny buckle. Mary has a flash of her own future; it’s a bit scary, but she thinks of John’s gentle hands and smiles.

Mary glances up through the verdant trees, not quite able to see the tip of the cupola. Standing on the steps, they’re dwarfed by the imposing granite columns and the grand mahogany doors. Neither she nor John are church-goers but St. Marylebone is near the home they’ve made in St. John’s Wood and she appreciates its literary history. _How do I love thee?_ she thinks, imagining Elizabeth Barrett, forty years old and already sick with the mysterious illness that will kill her, stealing away to meet Robert Browning here for their clandestine wedding. She does hope she and John will have a few more years than the Brownings, though.

Molly’s fussing with Mary’s veil and Sally, ever the pragmatist, is asking if she needs to pee before they head in. Mary answers no with a laugh. On the pavement, Harry spins, watching her skirt swirl out. As she twirls nearer the edge of the steps, she almost bowls into a figure rounding the corner. Somehow, he sidesteps, despite the enormous box of flowers obstructing his view. He sets the box down on nearby ledge and Mary hears Molly squeak with surprise as from behind the blooms the florist emerged, tall and slim with a tangle of dark, curly hair and a neatly tailored suit.

“Molly.” He inclines his head toward her slightly as he moves to greet Mary. He shakes her hand and gives her a perfunctory and bland compliment regarding her appearance – more because it’s expected in his profession than because it is a real opinion, she suspects.

“You know Molly?”

“Ah, yes,” he glances over to where Molly is murmuring something to Sally, who is eyeing Sherlock suspiciously. “Dr Hooper and I have encountered one another before.” He doesn’t seem keen to offer further details so she doesn’t ask.

Returning to the flowers, he hands out corsages to Joan and Elizabeth and bouquets to Molly and Sally, wiping the stems first to avoid drips. Molly giggles a bit when his hand touches hers and Mary smiles as she watches him quietly readjust her grip so the bouquet is situated properly. It’s not that she’s a matchmaker, but she would like to see Molly settle down, and the florist is quite attractive in a Byronic, brooding sort of way.

Harry’s buzzing around the steps now, feeding off the heightened excitement as everyone completes their last preparations. Joan is fussing with her collar and sighs wearily at Harry’s constant stream of questions.

“Why do flowers need water? Why do people need water? Why isn’t there water in space? What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?” This last question is directed at Mary, who always has time for Harry’s questions.

“I’m afraid I don’t know the answer to that one, H.”

Sherlock surprises them all by glancing at her as he imperceptibly readjusts a stem in Mary’s bouquet and stating, “It’s a trick question. If an unstoppable force exists, than an immovable object cannot and vice versa. They’ll never meet because it is a physical impossibility for them to exist in the same universe.”

Harry stares at him with some wonderment before grabbing his hand and declaring, “I want to sit next to you at the wedding.” They all laugh; Sherlock considers – so far, the eight-year-old is the most interesting person in attendance – then nods briefly before extricating his hand to continue his duties. He removes the last and grandest bouquet and cleans it meticulously before bringing it to Mary.

“It’s lovely,” she says, and means it. Like John’s boutonniere, it has sprigs of lilac, mixed with large white daisies and deep purple chrysanths. Sherlock smiles distractedly at her, with a mild expression of satisfaction on his face. Although he finds weddings themselves generally quite painful – far too much earnest emotion and forced familiarity – they do provide ripe experimental grounds. He’s good at his job and takes pride in choosing the flowers to best suit a client, but in some cases the temptation is far too great to administer a bit of comeuppance to particularly onerous couples. He’s particularly fond of introducing a subtle allergen into a bouquet or boutonniere. Mary, however, had been a pleasantly hands-off sort of bride, giving him general requests then allowing him a great amount of leeway in creating the final product. His creations were not just aesthetically pleasing but also held layers of historic symbolic meaning; he had restrained himself from including any small white marigolds for suffering, hydrangeas for heartlessness, or begonias as a warning against flightiness.

Satisfied that all is at the ready, he follows Harry into the chapel and installs her into one of the front family pews. She’s still chatting away rapidly, now asking him questions about himself. “What’s the name Sherlock mean? I’ve never heard it before, it’s a bit of a weird name.”

“It’s from my parents, obviously. My family is a bit…unusual,” he concedes, with a slightly rueful grimace.

“My name’s short for Harriet. But my brother and Mary call me H sometime, which John says is short for Jesus H. Christ, which is what my mum said when she found out she was pregnant.” Sherlock snorts; it’s clear, given the age difference between the groom and Harry, that little Harriet would have come as somewhat of a surprise. Her mother takes that moment to slip into her seat and Sherlock takes his leave, slipping off to the side as the groom and best man enter.

He pauses when the men stop at the altar, his eyes drawn to the small but firmly built man about to get married. He’d walked in with a cane – silver-tipped mahogany and clearly new for the occasion – but he handles it carelessly as if he’s embarrassed to need it at all. When he stands, he doesn’t lean on it as if he’s forgotten its presence. His bearing is authoritative – military – and his free hand tremors slightly. Sherlock is so busy watching him that he doesn’t notice at once when the groom’s eyes fall onto him. He looks up to the groom’s face and their eyes meet; Sherlock feels the intensity and heat behind the man’s quiet demeanour and thinks, _oh. This is inconvenient_.

++

The walk up the side aisle is blindingly quick; he leans as little as possible on his cane. A present from Mary’s parents: it’s beautiful, much finer than his hospital-issued aluminium one, but he finds he hates it. Hates having to use it, especially today. Even though Mary loves him, useless leg, bad temper, and gnarled shoulder and all, he knows she deserves perfection. He pushes his doubts out of his mind, straightening up to stand at attention at the altar.

He hears the first strains of the bridal march begin and turns, his eyes sweeping the assembled crowd of family and friends. A movement at the side of the chapel catches his eye, and standing there, staring back at him, is a man he’s never seen before. Their eyes meet and John feels his mouth go dry and his breath catch. He feels, under the intense stare of the stranger, stripped naked and pieced apart and yet more whole than he’s felt in a long time. For one brief moment, his controlled, projected air of normalcy shatters and his secrets, his nightmares and thrills, the niggling little reminders of a life lived on the margins of risk, are revealed. The thought flashes through his mind that he’s just found someone that sees – and understands – his very core and it’s far less terrifying than it should be.

The moment’s broken by the collective gasp of the crowd and John turns his attention to his bride, who has just appeared, radiant and smiling, at the head of the aisle. She walks towards him and he feels himself relax, comforted by the easy knowledge of their shared love.

++

The reception is bustling; Mary’s making the rounds, chatting amicably with aunts, cousins, and co-workers, her soft smile charming everyone she speaks with. Harry sneaked three pieces of cake and is whirling around the dance floor madly, high on sugar and relishing the attention given to her crazed, made-up dance moves. John’s slipped away to get something to drink as the excitement has left him parched, but found himself in a predicament. He’s fishing through the punch bowl with a ladle when a deep voice behind him says, “excuse me.”

He turns and it’s him – the stranger from the ceremony. Up close, his eyes are even more startling, pale, long-lashed, and searching. He finds himself blushing – actually blushing – under their scrutiny. “We haven’t been introduced yet. Sherlock Holmes. I did your flowers.”

“Oh! The flowers are lovely. The lilac – did you pick that? It always reminds me of my childhood; we had a huge lilac bush in the back garden that bloomed spectacularly every spring.” He’s babbling, a failed effort to regain composure.

Sherlock’s eyes are intent on him now. He quirks an odd little smile, like he’s laughing at his own joke, before responding, “I suggested them. Lilacs are symbolic of the first emotions of love and of memory. Always a nice reminder at a wedding, I find.”

“Reminding the couple what they first felt before they fall into the tedium of married life, you mean?” John’s teasing makes Sherlock’s smile a bit wider and John suddenly feels in on the joke.

“I was just…” Sherlock gestures to the punch bowl half-hidden behind John’s body.

John shifts to block him and stutters, “no! I mean, it’s not any...you don’t want...” he trails off as Sherlock’s eyebrow raises in a silent question. “Oh, all right. I was scooping out some punch when, well, my ring fell off.”

“Your wedding ring?” John nods. “It’s in...” Sherlock gestures at the punch bowl and John, blushing furiously with embarrassment, nods again. “Well, then, given that you’ve been unable to retrieve it using any implements, the situation will clearly have to be handled manually.”

“What?!” John watches as Sherlock unbuttons his cuff and rolls up the sleeve of his aubergine shirt. His slim, pale forearm is dotted with freckles and the muscles shifting underneath his skin betray a hidden strength. He plunges his hand into the bowl, fishing around the bottom as John anxiously keeps his eyes on the guests. With a triumphant noise, Sherlock plucks the small gold circle out and shows it to John. John takes it with relief and slips it back onto his finger still wet; he finds himself laughing, almost giggling, and is surprised to hear Sherlock join in.

Just as they’ve finished the exchange, trying to stifle their giggles, Molly shows up, with a shy word of congratulations for John and a blushing invitation to dance for Sherlock. Sherlock looks startled and awkwardly clears his throat before offering a stilted acceptance for _one_ dance. That’s enough for Molly, who gleefully takes his hand and leads him out onto the floor just as a slow song starts up. Harry sulks off the dance floor, upset that boring slow songs are playing now, and Sally’s dancing with her husband Mike. Across the tent, John’s eyes catch Mary’s and they smile and walk toward each other. As he slips his arms around her waist and leans into her comfortable embrace, he feels at home.

++

Bill’s regaled the crowd with a mortifying story about John in his pants and four cases of off-brand lime-flavoured gelatine stolen from the mess hall at their base in Afghanistan and Molly’s tearfully stated how pleased she is that her best friend has found a soul mate, which means it’s his turn. John’s given talks at medical conferences before, he can speak in front of groups, but he’s still unaccountably nervous to stand up and talk. His hand shakes a bit and he flexes his fingers under the table. When he stands, Mary squeezes his hand and doesn’t let go. He smiles at her with gratitude and feels the tremors begin to subside as he faces the crowd.

“Hi. I’m John. You may know me.” Titters of laughter sweep through the tent. He smiles and begins to relax. “Mary and I want to thank you all for being here with us on our day. Most of you would probably say it’s been a long, long time coming. Even though it may have taken me a while to realize it, I’m so happy to have found a partner in this wonderful woman sitting next to me.” At the back of the tent he sees a movement; it’s Sherlock, slipping out while everyone’s attention is on the head table. John feels a tightening in his chest and momentarily loses his train of thought.

When he shakes off his daze the crowd is still looking at him expectantly. He looks down at Mary, who is beaming up at him proudly, and regains his thread. “I’m lucky to be spending the rest of my life with my best friend. Mary,” he turns to look at her, “I love you.” She stands and they kiss to the cheers of their friends and family.

++

Sherlock slips out when John stands to give his toast. He’s radiantly happy, up there with his pretty bride on his arm, and Sherlock hates hearing wedding speeches from radiantly happy people. They’re always unaccountably dull. If he’s being truthful to himself, he knows he especially doesn’t want to hear John, happy and in love, and that means it’s time to take off and keep his distance.

He lets himself into his flat and checks up on an aquarium in his kitchen in which a hoard of dermestid beetles is feeding on a large piece of decomposing pig flesh. He records some notes but, too distracted to make a proper study that night, retires to his bedroom.

Flopping down on the bed with a sigh, he thinks, _at least London’s a big city._


	2. Chapter 2

They’ve been married three weeks and nothing has changed. They already lived together, shared expenses, burped in front of each other, so beyond being a bit fiddly, the rings don’t impact them much. John thinks it’s wonderful.

It’s a beautiful, warm evening out and he’s on his way to meet Mary for dinner. She’s filling in at Marylebone Library, not far from the surgery, and even though he knows his leg will ache tomorrow, he’s decided to walk the whole way. It’s physical therapy, he thinks, and maybe if keeps pushing past the pain it’ll get better.

He’s just passing Baker Street when a sign catches his eye. _Scientia Botanica_ , in a straightforward serif text on a blue-painted lintel above the door to what is unmistakably a flower shop. _Sherlock’s shop_ , he thinks, and before he’s had a chance to consider, his feet are taking him across the street to stop at the open door.

Sherlock’s standing with his back to the door talking with – or at, rather – a man wearing a mud-splattered raincoat and a cowed expression.

“Now, you’ve come to get flowers because you’re planning on telling your wife you had an affair and beg her forgiveness. Unfortunately for you, she already knows and has for about, oh, three days, and is planning on leaving you. Flowers may be a start, but they can’t work miracles, I’m afraid. Now, if I were you I would start with peonies, which say that you are ashamed of your actions, and work from there.”

Sherlock’s face brightens the moment he sees him and John feels a tightening in his stomach. “John! Hello. What can I do for you?”

“Well, I was just passing and I recognized the shop name. I just wanted to, um, say thank you again.”

“Of course.” John feels exposed, nervous under Sherlock’s searching eyes. “Wait there. Let me just finish...” he gestures at the man in the raincoat, who is now looking both bewildered and nauseous. John steps out of the way, browsing through the buckets of flowers along one wall, each labelled neatly with their common and Latin names. Behind him, Sherlock is a whirlwind of motion, grabbing blooms from here and there, narrating all along about their origins and meanings, then pulling them all together into a spectacular bouquet. The man silently pays, squeaks out something that almost could be a thank you, and nearly runs into John trying to leave.

They both watch the man stumble out the door, bouquet clutched in his arms. “Did he really tell you he was cheating and that his wife was going to leave him?”

“No, he had no idea about his wife, I’m afraid. I could just tell by looking at him.” At John’s puzzled expression, he elaborates. “State of his wedding ring tells me that his marriage is unhappy. Hair dye and recent change to contacts tell me he’s cheating. His coat – his wife usually cleans and mends it, but it has a fresh tear that’s happened since the last time it rained hard enough in his neighbourhood to cause mud that bad, which was four days ago. She’s found out and is mad. He said they had decided to have a talk, not that it was a surprise, which means she wants to tell him something too. Most likely topic of discussion? His infidelity and her impending departure.”

“That’s...that’s amazing.”

“Really?”

“Of course it is; I’ve never seen anything like it. What can you tell about me?”

“Oh, Doctor Watson, I can tell plenty. But that’s not a route you want to go down, I assure you.”

“No, really, tell me. Hang on, how did you know I was a doctor?”

Sherlock smiles and John feels himself holding his breath. “Not only a doctor, but a former army doctor. Discharged when wounded three – no, four years ago. Married to your childhood friend, but that’s easy, I was at your wedding. You live in St. John’s Wood, work near here – Harley Street, I believe – and like to walk in Regent’s Park on your lunch break. Your limp is psychosomatic, your hand tremor goes away under high-stress situations, and your favourite flower is the lily – you generally prefer white but do not favour a particular variation.”

“I...that’s spectacular.” Sherlock actually blushes under the praise and ducks his head a bit. “I’m serious, unless you’ve been stalking me, that’s really amazing.”

“I assure you, I haven’t –”

“Been stalking me? I hope not.” They smile at each other and without really knowing what he’s doing, John blurts out, “Come to dinner. With me. Us. Me and Mary, at our place.”

“I...”

“C’mon, do. This Friday? I’ll cook. Hopefully you haven’t deduced that I’m actually a rubbish cook.”

Sherlock can’t help but laugh at John’s earnest, self-deprecating invitation. “Of course. This Friday.”

John writes down their details, then turns to leave. Sherlock’s voice stops him at the door. “John? Did I get anything wrong?”

John turns and looks at him for a moment. He exhales and says in a low voice, “It might be psychosomatic, but my leg still hurts.” Sherlock swallows. The air between them is tense for a moment. “And I like lilies, but they’re not my favourite flower.” With a grin, John’s out the door.

++

The light’s on in his flat and there’s an umbrella hanging on a hook near the door. Sherlock stifles a groan of disgust and resigns himself to a lecture from his intolerable brother.

“Mycroft, you can’t just let yourself in.”

“I think you’ll find, little brother, that I can.” Sherlock scoffs and throws himself into the armchair opposite Mycroft.

“What precisely is it this time? World war? Apocalypse? Please say it’s something horrid and you’re not just here to pester me.”

“Can’t a brother just check in? I’m concerned; you’ve seemed even more of a shut-in than usual these past few weeks.”

“God, stop having me watched. And what does it matter to you if I’m a shut in? I’m an adult. I’m allowed to choose my own company. Hypothetically, at least,” he glares at Mycroft, who smiles back benignly.

“Yes, that’s the problem, though; you don’t seem to be choosing any company. You need to get out, make friends, dare I say go on dates.”

“Like you do, you mean?”

“My job keeps me quite busy, thank you.”

“As does mine.”

“Now, which one would you be referring to, the flower arranging or the playing with bugs?”

“Kindly fuck off, Mycroft. You know that my work produces important results. Besides, I’m going out on Friday.” He hopes Mycroft won’t be prying with the details.

“A date?”

“A dinner. Now get out of my flat. And for god’s sake, don’t come back unless the world’s ending and you need someone to put you out of your misery.” Mycroft sighs deeply, but stands.

“I’m glad to see you’re making an effort, Sherlock. Mummy does so want to see you settling down with someone.” With a self-satisfied smile, Mycroft lets himself out.

Sherlock flops down on the couch, thinking about what he’ll wear to dinner. He imagines John in casual clothes, something like he wore at the flower shop but with his collar undone, exposing the skin of his neck. He can pull up in his mind a perfect image of what John looked like earlier, the way his eyes had widened in shock as he reeled off his observations, how he licked his lips in nervousness after asking Sherlock to come to dinner. He had been using a plain, hospital-issue aluminium cane but hadn’t leaned on it once while Sherlock was talking. He thinks of the jeans John had been wearing, low on his hips and fitted enough that he could see the shifting muscles of his thighs as he walked. Heat pools in his abdomen. _Oh god_. He sits up, head in his hands. _What am I getting myself into?_

++

Mary scrubs her face, splashes it with cold water, and pats it down with a towel. She leans toward the mirror, inspecting a lurking spot on her chin, as behind her John brushes his teeth. He bends around her to spit in the sink, one hand on her hip, and she smiles at him in the mirror and wriggles her bum against his crotch.

“One-track mind, you,” he says with a playful swat to her arse.

“How can I resist with such a gorgeous husband?” He gives her a foamy toothpaste kiss behind her ear and now she’s the one swatting him. They play-wrestle for a minute until Mary’s backed John against the counter, holding his hands behind his back, and they’re kissing. Pulled into the kiss, Mary lets go of John’s hands and he wraps one arm around her waist. “Mmm, that’s lovely, husband.”

John smiles at her adoringly. “My beautiful wife.” He kisses her once more and then exclaims, “Oh! I saw Sherlock, the flower guy, earlier. I invited him to dinner this Friday, I hope you don’t mind.” He tries to say it casually, like he’s only just remembered, even though Sherlock’s piercing eyes and rapid-fire observations had been in the back of his mind all night.

“Oh. Sure, he seemed nice enough, of course I don’t mind. Hey, why don’t we invite Molly along too? They seemed to get on well at the wedding.”

John smiles even as he feels a little twist in his chest. “Always the matchmaker! Sure, let’s have Molls come along. I’ll make lasagne.”

“We’ll order in.”

“Hey! My lasagne’s delicious!”

Mary grins wickedly and kisses the tip of his nose. “Of course, darling. Now, can we discuss this later? Right now you need to take your wife to bed.”

++

The doorbell rings as John is checking on dinner in the oven. Mary, still putting her earrings in, opens it to find Sherlock, impeccably dressed and holding a small flowerpot filled with delicate purple blooms. “Sherlock! It’s lovely to see you again, thank you for coming.”

“Mary,” Sherlock presses one kiss to her cheek without touching her, holding the flower pot to one side. He shifts awkwardly before presenting the pot to her. “Although you tend to favour cut flowers, you’ve been thinking of starting a window garden. _Heliotropium arborescens_. They’re quite hardy and were a favourite of Emily Dickinson, one of your favourite poets.”

“I...how did you know that?” She marvels for a minute at Sherlock, who is standing silent and ill-at-ease, before accepting the plant. “I mean, they’re beautiful, thank you.” She holds the pot gingerly as they stand awkwardly not looking at each other for a moment. Mary recovers and launches back into her host duties. “Come on, John’s just in the kitchen.” Sherlock follows her in to where John pokes uncertainly at a casserole dish, wearing an apron that says ‘Kiss the Doctor’ on the front. He looks up as they enter and smiles at the flowerpot.

“Ah, heliotrope. Beautiful. Not my favourite, personally, though.” Sherlock stares at him, a smile slowly opening up on his face. The awkwardness at the door seems to have dissipated, although Mary’s looking between the two, wondering if she missed the joke. They watch each other for a moment but are interrupted by the bell ringing once again.

Mary lets her friend in with a hug. Despite her embarrassed shyness at the wedding, Molly seems to be much more comfortable tonight, with just a few friends present. She smiles widely at Sherlock as she walks into the kitchen. He narrows his eyes, looking her up and down.

“Molly. You’ve changed your hair.”

“I...yes. Thank you.”

“It looked better before; your forehead is too big now.” Sherlock states this with no hint of malice, simply as observation, but Mary furrows her brow and Molly goes pink to the tips of her ears.

“I – okay. It’s nice to see you again too, Sherlock.”

John saves them all by announcing that the lasagne’s ready, or at least is as good as it’s going to get. They make their way to the table, where Mary pours generous glasses of wine, and the next twenty minutes are given over to polite conversation as they eased into the meal. The lasagne is heavy on the cheese, which can mask a multitude of sins, but surprisingly flavourful.

“So, dish. How much better is married sex, anyway?” Molly’s eyes glisten mischievously as John and Mary laugh and glance at each other, a bit embarrassed.

“Pleasurable if not as frequent as desired, but that’s no change from before. They both still have busy schedules which can cause stress and tiredness. But, still spontaneous, given the quickie they engaged in before we arrived.” The quirked grin Sherlock gives John at the end of his pronouncement shows no animosity; John gets the sense that he’s testing his boundaries, checking to see if it’s all still _spectacular_ and _amazing_.

“God, Sherlock, please don’t ever tell me how you knew that.” John’s laughing, not angry, and he’s not sure why he’s not annoyed, but it may have something to do with the way Sherlock watches him, like he’s a puzzle to decipher.

“Now, Sherlock, if you can deduce why exactly John still thinks dutch-ovening me is hilarious, then I’ll really think you’re a genius.”

“Ah, grown male fascination with flatulence. Now, that, I’m afraid, I cannot explain.” They’re all laughing now, the tension from earlier broken.

“Well, I think that pretty much sums up married life. So, what about you, Sherlock? Married? Girlfriend?”

“Smooth change of topic there, love.” John grins at his wife, who sticks her tongue out in response.

“Not married, no. And girlfriends are...not really my area.” The table goes silent; Mary blushes, embarrassed at her assumption and Molly bites her lip and stares at her lap, twisting her serviette.

John catches Sherlock’s eye and Sherlock stares coolly back at him. “Well, that’s fine. Boyfriend, then?” John’s voice is normal and the tension in the room starts to dissipate.

“Not currently, no.” That hurdle crossed, Mary switches the discussion to a new exhibition at the Tate Modern and from there conversation flows easily through dessert.

++

After dinner, Mary takes Molly up to the loft to show her a new limited-edition letterpress poster she had just added to their art collection and John clears the table as Sherlock begins to wander the flat. He picks up and studies items, winding his way through the collected knick-knacks. When John comes back into the living room, Sherlock is at one of the bookshelves in the corner, making a careful study of the titles, pulling volumes out occasionally to leaf through before replacing them on the shelves.

“Well, what do you think?”

“Most of the books are Mary’s; not unusual, she’s a librarian, she would have a collection. Because of your deployment you learned to pare down your belongings, therefore most of your books are of sentimental value. While you’re comfortable sharing space, bank accounts, and belongings in every other area of your life, your books and Mary’s are separated rather than mixed together. Why is that?” He continues without a pause, the question clearly rhetorical. “Partly, it seems, because you organize differently. She by genre and author, you by memory associations. Favourite books from your childhood here, medical texts on another shelf – rarely consulted, you’re either an excellent doctor or a terrible one, although I believe I know which – and books received as gifts here, eye level, place of pride. How am I doing so far?”

“Well – Mary’s both protective and particular about her books and my few tend to get lost amongst hers so we’ve kept them separate since we moved in. Saves me from getting involved when she gets into one of her monthly re-organization schemes,” he ends with a rueful smile. “And I’m a very good doctor.”

Sherlock grins. “Never doubted.” He gestures with the volume he holds in his hand. “What’s special about this one? It’s right at the end of the section, shows significant amount of wear, and though there’s a bit of dust on the shelf there’s none in front of its space, showing you remove it regularly, or at least recently.”

John takes the book, a well-thumbed text on astronomy, and a sad smile plays on his face. “Ah, well, this one is from someone I knew, someone I liked quite a bit.” John’s not sure he wants to talk about this particular book, hasn’t talked about it with anyone yet, and his mouth feels dry and his stomach tight. Sherlock holds out his hand, hesitantly, but John willingly passes the book back. “What do you make of it?” He’s not sure why he does it other than a strange innate trust. Sherlock’s observations have already touched on his service, his psyche, his sex life, but this is different and he can tell by the care Sherlock takes when opening the cover that he recognizes that.

The inscription is short, written in ballpoint pen in a scrawling and childish hand. “ _Doc, the stars for you, Matthew_. Someone you were close to, someone who died recently. A patient, but there was more than that – he looked up to you, respected you, maybe idolized you a bit. Maybe was a bit in love.” John swallows roughly and looks away. Sherlock’s closed the book and is now looking at John only. His voice is quiet, filled not with the usual bravado and humour that’s accompanied all their conversations thus far, but with cautious curiosity.

“His death was hard on you, but not because you were in love with him. You feel guilty, but he didn’t die until recently and the age of this book says he was your patient in Afghanistan, so not doctor’s guilt. Oh. Suicide.” John sniffs, clearly choking back tears, and Sherlock falls silent. He reaches one hand out, tentatively, and touches John’s shoulder.

It’s not a grip, a hold, or a caress, just a touch, but John feels the heat from Sherlock’s palm through his shirt. The way his body is angled toward John’s, the five tiny points of contact of his fingertips, the look in his eyes – fearful, but not of John, fear that he’d gone too far – make John feel once again that Sherlock’s mind is fully centred on him. The full intensity of Sherlock’s attention, he thinks, could become addictive.

“He was cheerful and positive and sweet, and so, so young. He was a bit of an amateur astronomer and he taught me some of the stars, pointing out constellations from the hospital window when I made my night rounds. He had been caught in an ambush, lost his entire left leg, had brutal scarring on the rest of his body. He sent that book to me when I was invalided home. A way of saying things would be okay. I thought, anyway.” He looks away, leaning heavily on his cane and clenching his left hand.

“His funeral was two weeks before the wedding. We had invited him – he was going to come. I just. I don’t know why I didn’t see.” He wipes his eyes angrily with the back of his cuff. “I’m sorry; I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Jesus, what a way to end a dinner party.” Sherlock barks a short laugh at the joke and drops his hand. John gives him a brief, pained smile.

“Thank you.”

“For what, turning into a blubbering idiot in front of a near total stranger?”

“For telling me. Besides, I’m hardly a stranger, I’ve known more about you than your own mother since the moment we met.”

John laughs in earnest this time, his eyes beginning to dry. “That’s true, isn’t it? And yet, I still barely know anything about you.”

“Give it time. You’ll probably find me insufferable like everyone else.”

“I doubt that; you’re brilliant.” The smile Sherlock gives John sends warmth down his spine and he knows at that moment he’ll do anything to make Sherlock smile like that again.

++

They’ve seen their guests off – Sherlock in a cab, Molly off to the Underground – and started the clean-up process. Mary’s washing up, elbows deep in bubbles. John stands next to her, absently holding a dishtowel and waiting for the next plate to dry.

“It sounds daft, I know, but I quite like Sherlock. He’s –”

“Awkward? A bit rude?” Mary’s smiling despite herself.

John chuckles. “Well, that. He’s also quite...extraordinary. Even when I first met him, I don’t know, I felt we could be friends.”

“Like fate?”

“No. Well, maybe. Just like we already knew each other, or he already knew me, and I was fine with it.” He absently takes the next clean plate, dries it and places it on the shelf. “I know he comes off a bit, um, brusque, but he’s just so, god I don’t know, brilliant.”

Mary smiles. “Aw, I think my man has a bit of a crush.” She kisses him on the tip of the nose, leaning to one side to avoid getting soap bubbles on him.

“I just wouldn’t mind seeing more of him, that’s all.”

“Aw, love, you should. Maybe not too much time, mind. I have a feeling you two could get into all sorts of trouble.”

++

Sherlock sits in the back of the cab, eyes closed. He flexes his hand, remembering the feel of John’s shoulder. The hard angle of bone, the shifting muscles. The warmth of skin, flushed from wine and embarrassment. It’s only wishful thinking that imagines a flush of desire; he pictures John’s skin naked, blood rising to the surface. He thinks of scars and bullet holes, of new bruises painted with teeth.

The cabbie has to tell him they’ve arrived twice before he notices. He pays him abstractly, tipping far too much, and walks up the pavement to his door. The flat is dark and silent; Mrs Hudson must be out. His mind is heavy on the walk up the stairs and he collapses onto the sofa in the dark once he arrives.

From under the sofa he fishes out a box of nicotine patches and slaps one on. He feels his mind sharpen and clear; it’s not the pleasant oblivion of opiates but it focuses the splintered refractions of his mind. _It’s just a crush_ , he thinks, _you just like that he admires your brilliance_.

“We could just be...friends.” He says out loud to the empty room. From the mantel, the skull mocks him with its empty eyes. He thinks about giving John up, about ignoring his texts and never seeing him again. Then again, he has no proof John even wants to see him again. Although he had ignored it, then quite pointedly set everyone straight, he knew tonight had a matchmaker factor to it. Perhaps the only reason John invited him was to set him up with Molly.

But there had been something, a trust or an understanding, when they spoke about John’s dead friend. He knew from experience there was little in him to engender sharing of feelings, yet John had articulated fears it was clear he hadn’t yet shared with anyone, even his wife. What he didn’t know was why. John was a cipher; where most people got angry when Sherlock pried, John accepted it, laughed even, and let him, even asked him, to do more.

He’d called Sherlock brilliant in a wondrous tone, had smiled like Sherlock was the best thing he’d ever found. He’d clapped Sherlock on the back as he left and told him they’d talk soon. John seemed affable, generous with his friendship, but Sherlock sensed there was an undertone of excitement, of anticipation in their dealings with each other. Maybe his friendship can give John something he’s missing.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry had called him three times in the past week to remind him about her science presentation; he had promised to be there and had long since cleared the afternoon in his schedule. She had been quite mum on what exactly she would be presenting and he only knew it had something to do with bugs.

His parents were already there when he arrived; after some lamenting about Mary’s unexpected call into work that afternoon after another librarian had taken ill, they proceed together into the auditorium. They’ve settled down on a row of uncomfortable plastic chairs and Joan and Ned are talking with the young couple on their right, parents of a classmate of Harry’s, when a familiar figure slips into the seat beside John’s.

“Sherlock! What are you doing here?”

“Harry invited me. I helped her out a bit with the project. Industrious girl, your sister; she looked me up on the internet so she could call me and demand my help.” He seems amused rather than annoyed by Harry’s insistence.

“Oh, god, I am so sorry. Once she gets onto something, she stays fixated. She hasn’t told anyone what she’s done for the project, though, I’m very curious to see what the two of you have come up with.”

“I helped her with the basic idea and procuring supplies, but all the work’s been her. She might make a good entomologist someday.” John wants to ask Sherlock how he knows about entomology but the lights dim as Harry steps out onto the stage, carrying a box covered in a tablecloth – one of Mum’s good ones, he notes.

Harry sets the box down and begins to speak in a wavering, practised voice about classifications of insects. John leans forward, resting his hand on the edge of his chair, but stiffens when he feels Sherlock’s hand brush against his own. He’s sure Sherlock notices his tension so he forces himself to relax, leaving his hand there and allowing their fingers to just touch. Sherlock’s hand is cool, the edge of his finger slightly rough and John thinks of watching Sherlock fish his ring out of the punch bowl, his fingers long and dexterous, calloused at the tips and slightly scarred from work. He hadn’t realized he noticed them in such detail.

He straightens up a bit, leaving his hand in place, and his shoulder grazes Sherlock’s upper arm, leaving him cognizant of their height difference in a way he hadn’t been before. In his mind, he turns toward Sherlock, feeling the full weight of his pale, piercing eyes, and touches his hair, the dark curls soft under his fingertips. He can feel the rise and fall of Sherlock’s shoulders with each breath and imagines placing one hand on his chest, feeling his heart beat under his fingers.

He’s completely lost track of Harry’s presentation and is snapped back to reality when a gasp goes up from the crowd. Harry’s just revealed her project, pulling the tablecloth off with a flourish, and there stands an aquarium full of flat red and black beetles, all madly devouring a rather vile-looking piece of meat. Harry continues her presentation, oblivious to the concerned and judgmental chatter throughout the audience, describing the scavenging process of the red-breasted carrion beetle and its uses in forensic entomology (she pronounces the word quite slowly, emphasizing each syllable). Joan and Ned are laughing quietly to themselves, embarrassed that their daughter’s just revealed a rather morbid and graphic pet project but proud despite themselves. John glances over at Sherlock, who is rapt with attention, a small grin playing on his face.

When she concludes, Sherlock and John are both on their feet, clapping like madmen, while most of the rest of the audience tepidly applauds, whispers still flying about the odd little Watson girl. The four of them sneak out of the auditorium while the teacher is stating politely how _interesting_ Harry’s presentation had been, really _thought provoking_. It’s rude to leave in the middle, but now that they’ve become the family of the weird death-obsessed girl they all think maybe it’s best to leave before the post-production mingling.

Harry bounds out of the side door, bursting with energy now that her big secret’s out. Joan briefly reprimands her for not telling them what she’d been working on before pulling her into a big hug and telling her how brilliant she’d been. John ruffles her hair and tells her to never stop being a nerd while Ned starts asking more detailed questions about her new pets.

“Well, Sherlock said he’d need ‘em back sometime, cause he borrowed ‘em from Scotland Yard, but I wish I could keep them.” Ned throws Sherlock a relieved look. “I’ll miss them all – Mikey and Ben and Captain Philmore and the Doctor and Dalek and...” as she continues naming each of the dozens of beetles, John and Sherlock step out into the fresh air.

“You really helped her with all of that?” Sherlock nods. “It’s absolutely mad and probably incredibly inappropriate for her age, but I’ve never seen her so excited about a project. So, thanks.”

“My pleasure. I meant what I said earlier, she’s quite determined, which I rather respect.”

“It wasn’t human meat, was it?”

Sherlock chuckles. “No, sadly. Pig, closest approximation. I did think about commandeering some human remains from the morgue, but Molly’s rather put out with me at the moment.” John raised his eyebrow in a silent question. “Something about borrowing eyeballs without filling out paperwork.”

“Eyeballs? Okay. I think we all appreciate you refraining.”

“I was measuring the rate of poison absorption in the vitreous fluid.”

“…Right. I’d try to get back on Molly’s good side if I were you. She can hold a grudge.” Sherlock raised one eyebrow in disbelief. “No, really. For a mild-mannered little thing she’s surprisingly devious. I had the mistake of starting a prank war with her years ago and let’s just say I still can’t eat custard without horrible flashbacks.”

A small smile of surprise and maybe a bit of admiration flits across Sherlock’s face. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Also, Scotland Yard? How did you get into all of this, anyway?”

“It’s part of my job.”

“As a florist?” John’s confusion shows on his face.

“Not exactly – the shop is really just a hobby which conveniently pays the bills. I’m also a consulting botanist, entomologist, and pedologist for the violent crime division of Scotland Yard.”

“Pedologist?”

“Soil analysis expert. I know the appearance, mineral content, and morphological features of soils and gravels from every area of London.”

“Really? So, you actually work with forensics and all that that Harry was talking about?”

“Sort of. The police come to me when they’re out of their depth. Which is often. They have their own horrendously incapable forensics team and it’s my job to work out the bits they’ve missed. Which is generally everything of substance.”

John’s laughing; he’s not seen Sherlock in action outside of the flower shop, but he can imagine him terrorizing and browbeating the police. “You’ll have to tell me about it sometime.”

“I can do you one better: I’ll show you.”

“Show me?”

“Next time there’s a case on, you can come along.”

“Scotland Yard will just let me onto a crime scene?”

“If I tell them to.” Somehow, John doesn’t doubt this.

“Right, then, it’s a date,” John says, taking Sherlock’s hand as if to shake on it. They both freeze as the sudden touch and the meaning of John’s words settle over them. “I mean –”

Sherlock interrupts him, dropping his hand abruptly. “I should go. I need to open the shop back up. Customers.”

“Right.” John realizes he’s still holding his hand up and lowers it, feeling like an idiot. “Well, um, bye then.” Sherlock nods curtly and walks off, leaving John embarrassed and wondering what the hell was coming over him.

++

The door to the morgue opens as she places the last staple in Mr Gordon’s y-incision. Cause of death is heart failure but it had come as a surprise to Mr Gordon, forty years old and generally in good health. The damaged kidneys lead her mind in another direction.

“Hyperkalaemia.” At the deep voice, her hands still and she lets out a sigh.

“Sherlock, I thought I told you to stay out of my morgue. I’m tired of trying to explain to my boss why I’m missing organs.” Resigned to a fight, she peels off her gloves and turns, to encounter Sherlock with an expression that on anyone else’s face Molly would have described as cowed and one tall, perfect branch of hyacinth.

“Molly, I apologize for removing the eyeballs without completing the proper paperwork. Although I did plan to bring them back –” she narrows her eyes and Sherlock cuts himself off. “I did not intend to make your job difficult.” He thrusts the bloom at her. “Here. Your favourite.” It is her favourite and, after considering him a moment and deciding that’s the best apology she’ll probably ever get, she takes it.

Sherlock brightens, stepping more fully into the lab and peering at Mr Gordon. “Is this one of Lestrade’s? Tell him to speak with the brother who works on a farm.”

“On a farm? Potassium nitrate poisoning from fertilizer? That would make sense.” She’s a bit peeved at his cool analysis; she had noticed the signs and had been halfway to putting them together before he arrived. As usual, Sherlock’s absolutely mad mind outpaced hers. She takes satisfaction, though, in the flash of surprise on his face when she understands his cryptic clue.

Sherlock rubs his hands together briskly, eyes twinkling in what she knows is anticipation. “Now, you had a corpse come in with botulinum poisoning. I’d like to see the liver.”

“No.”

That stops him. “What?”

“No, I’m not going to give you Connie Prince’s liver.”

“But…” he gestures at the hyacinth still in her hand and she laughs.

“Sherlock, you can’t just give a girl flowers and expect her to do whatever you say. Buy me a cup of coffee, tell me what you’re working on, and I’ll consider letting you look at her. If you complete all the necessary paperwork.” Sherlock pulls a face that rather reminds her of Harry when she’s told to eat beets, but it’s replaced eerily quickly by a charming smile. She thinks back on all the times he’d pulled that same smile when cajoling a favour and sighs inwardly. She thinks, since the dinner, that she’s begun to get over her silly crush but wishes, not for the first time, that she had a more highly developed gaydar.

She puts the hyacinth in a clean beaker and follows him up the stairs.

++

They settle in Bart’s cafeteria, two strong cups of coffee in front of them, his with milk, no sugar, hers with both. If there’s one thing the hospital gets right, she thinks, imagining rows of bland and uninspired hunks of greyish meat sitting under heat lamps, it’s the coffee. It’s not gourmet, it’s not hand-pulled, but it’s strong enough to cause an ulcer and keeps overworked doctors going long into the night.

Once seated, she expects to have to fend off Sherlock’s usual coaxing; when he wants something he can combine charm with a cold, calculated logic she’s never had any hope of arguing against. She’s seen him turn it on and off more times than she can count, like he had done earlier in the morgue, and she knows, rationally, that any emotion he’s ever shown her directly has been calculated, false. That – and his tendency to completely ignore proper procedure when it came to paperwork – had always annoyed her, but had generally been outweighed by the pleasure she took in the fact that he needed her.

However, they sit in awkward silence for a few minutes. She fiddles with her mug, turning the handle back and forth. Sherlock’s looking away from her, his eyes distant and shoulders slightly slumped. There’s clearly more on his mind than Connie Prince’s liver. She’s rarely seen him be anything less than composed and somehow, watching him drum his fingers nervously against the edge of the table and absently watch the slow-moving line at the cashier, she feels disconcerted. It’s as if a barrier in his demeanour has been broken and she finds she almost wishes it were still there. Wishes he would continue to be the cold, collected man she knew; this strange display of uncertainty unnerves her.

“So, have you, er, known Mary and John long?” Molly stares at him, perplexed. It’s the first time Sherlock’s ever tried to make small talk with her. Given his flushed cheeks and uneasy expression, it might be the first time he’s ever made small talk with anyone.

“Yeah, we met in uni. John and I were in organic chem together – he forgot a pen on the first day and I loaned him one. We became friends and if you’re friends with John, you’re friends with Mary. The two were inseparable, even then. And everyone who knew them was just waiting for them to realize how much they loved each other, blind gits.”

“And it was just that easy, making friends with him – with them?” His voice has a forced casualness to it and she begins to realize that it’s not just small talk. She answers warily.

“Well, yeah. John makes friends with everyone. Unless you do something to make him angry, at least.” Sherlock seems to consider this. “Why do you ask? He seems to have taken to you easily enough.” Sherlock gives her a pointed stare, and she realizes. “Oh. That doesn’t happen to you often, does it?”

He laughs, a short, brusque cough. “It is in fact much more common for people to take an instant _dislike_.”

“Well, you could try to be a bit, er, nicer.” The withering glare he returns says more than enough. _Everyone else could try to be a bit less idiotic_. “Okay, so that won’t work. Are you actually asking me how to make friends, or is this just about John?” Sherlock looks away and Molly waits patiently.

“I just – does he frequently invite near-strangers over for dinner?”

“Well, no, I wouldn’t say so. He’s generous – with himself, with his time, with what’s his – and once you’re his friend he’s loyal forever.” She hesitated, worrying her lower lip.

“But?” Sherlock prompted, noticing her pause.

“Well, it’s just different since he’s been back from the war. He’s more wary of new people.” She shakes her head, as if clearing it of a bad memory. “But he knows his mind, so if he’s made an effort, then you’re lucky. There are few better friends anyone could hope to have than John and Mary.”

“Why do you think it took them so long to become a couple?”

Molly considers, thinking back on her friends’ easy intimacy and careful protectiveness. “I think sometimes you don’t see what’s right in front of you. They had cared about each other for so long that they didn’t really realize how their feelings evolved.” Sherlock didn’t look convinced. “Look, I know you can tell everything about a person instantaneously, but it doesn’t happen like that for other people.”

“But surely, even if you can’t deduce their profession or hobbies – which is absurdly easy if you would just _look_ , I don’t know why people can’t _look_ –” he cuts his rant short with a roll of his eyes when Molly sighs, deeply, having heard it before. “Even if you can’t do that, surely you can tell if you love or at least like someone when you meet.”

“Sherlock Holmes, you’re not telling me you believe in love at first sight?”

He shrugs. “I like people who are interesting. Interesting is usually readily apparent, just like dullness and arrogance and timidity.” He looks away, but not before she notices the edge of his lip quirk up. It sparks a memory, a fleeting image from the dinner with John and Mary. She doesn’t even remember what they had been talking about; all she remembers is John’s laugh, rich and deep, and Sherlock watching him, not with the studious expression that makes her think he’s collecting and collating information in the vast files of his mind, but with his eyes slightly widened in surprise, lips parted and curling up slightly. It was a look of genuine pleasure and, what’s more, of interest.

Carefully, watching him from the corner of her eye, she asks, “So have you been in love, then?”

“The signs seem to point to yes.” He looks away, worrying his lip and her breath catches slightly. He won’t elaborate further. Is this what their relationship is now, then? He’s the one pining, and over – well. He can’t be. It can’t happen.

“Listen, Sherlock, you can’t –”

“I know!” Sherlock snaps. She leaves it at that but finds herself watching him finish his coffee. She wants, desperately, to get back to familiar footing, so once he’s drunk the last of his mug, she stands and gestures for him to come with her.

“Alright, then. You have to fill out all the paperwork – and truthfully this time, no using the names of dead serial killers as pseudonyms – but once that’s done you may have Connie Prince’s liver for two hours. You can take samples but otherwise must return it to me completely intact.”

He raises an eyebrow and nods his head, once. If she didn’t know better she’d say he almost had a look of admiration on his face. It’s quickly replaced with his usual mask of composure as he passes her to sweep out of the cafeteria, calling over his shoulder, “Liver first. Then a look at the kidneys and lungs, I rather think.” She rolls her eyes and follows him.

++

After the awkwardness at Harry’s school, John didn’t expect to hear from Sherlock again. It’s a pleasant surprise, then, when a week and a half later his phone buzzes, showing a message from Sherlock’s number. _Three bodies found in the cellar walls of a condemned house. Basements always have the best insect activity. Coming?_ Luckily it’s John’s afternoon for paperwork so he doesn’t have any patients scheduled. He doesn’t hesitate a moment before texting back. _God, yes. Where?_

He takes a cab to the address Sherlock sent. When he steps out, he sees Sherlock standing at the door of the building, arguing with a man suited up in a blue decontamination outfit. He’s impeccably dressed in a tailored charcoal suit despite the warmth of the spring day and carrying a small case. Sherlock’s smile when he sees John is true and bright and dispels any lingering thoughts of awkwardness. “Well, I came, what do you have to show me?” He keeps his voice is light, teasing, a challenge to Sherlock that he’s up for anything.

“Who the hell is this?”

“Ah, allow me to introduce Dr John Watson. My friend. John, meet Anderson, the Yard’s trophy of a forensic analyst.”

“A friend? You have friends? Right. Well, what the hell is he doing here? This is my crime scene, Holmes; you can’t just bring whoever you like to tramp all over it.”

“I think you’ll find I can bring _whomever_ I like if it enables me to do my job. Or, your job for you, as the case may be.” Anderson’s anger is clearly growing and even John feels a bit uncomfortable with Sherlock’s forceful barbs. The door opens and a forty-something man in a navy suit, white collared shirt unbuttoned at the top, looks out.

“What’s the holdup here? There is a crime scene, in case you’d forgotten.”

“Of course, Inspector. John, come on.” Sherlock sweeps into the house, leaving John, Anderson, and the inspector staring at each other.

“Well, I...” John moves to follow Sherlock but is stopped by the inspector.

“Who exactly are you?”

From the hallway, Sherlock’s voice carries back to them. “Dr Watson, he’s with me. Let him in so I can get on with it. John, meet Detective Inspector Lestrade, one of the Yard’s best and brightest.” His voice, ringing down the narrow corridor, drips with sarcasm. Lestrade looks perturbed, but gestured to John to come in, much to Anderson’s dismay. John complies with Anderson’s demands that he don a decontamination suit, climbing into the papery blue garment with some difficulty. They walk down to the cellar, Sherlock bounding two steps at a time, John taking the stairs slower with his cane.

The stench hits John before the room comes into view. He’s familiar with the smell of rotting flesh but has never quite gotten used to it. He reaches the bottom of the steps and looks around. The drywall on the back wall has been removed, revealing the studs and insulation and three rotting corpses falling out of the hole. Sherlock’s bent over them already, inspecting the fingernails of the nearest body with a small magnifying glass.

“Lestrade?” From behind John, the D.I. responds to Sherlock, telling him the details of the case.

“Called in by an anonymous tip – probably a squatter, house was condemned and has been abandoned for a few years. When we arrived, the hole had been covered by a sheet of rotting plywood,” here he gestures to the wood in the corner, “and when we removed it we found just what you see here.”

“Fascinating. John, what do you think?”

“About what?”

“About the bodies, you’re a medical man.”

“Sherlock, we have whole teams of forensic experts.”

“And yet you call me in. Because you need me. Therefore, let me conduct my investigation as I see fit.” Lestrade shuts his mouth but narrows his eyes.

John looks to Lestrade for permission before approaching the bodies. “Oh, go on then. Five minutes, Sherlock, you hear me?”

With some difficulty, John crouches by Sherlock near the bodies. “What am I doing here? I figured I’d stand in the back and watch while you worked your magic.”

Sherlock looks briefly annoyed at John’s colloquialism for his process, but responds with a barely contained grin. “Well, this is more fun, isn’t it? Now, what can you see on the bodies?”

John inspects them, touching the rotting flesh gently and only when necessary. “Dead more than a few days but less than two weeks, I’d say. One female, eighteen or so, two males in their twenties. Cause of death on the woman is obvious – gunshot wound to the cranium. No obvious cause of death on the males from this angle.”

“Good.” Sherlock takes some tools from the case at his side and begins to collect samples, swabbing under her fingernails and picking up some of the maggots and bugs wriggling through the decomposing flesh. “These will allow me to determine time of death.” Behind him, Anderson huffs, obviously put-out. John thinks that that does seem something a Yard-employed forensic specialist would be able to do, but he doesn’t voice his thoughts.

“Lestrade, have you found their shoes yet?”

“Their shoes?”

“Yes, shoes, they’re all fully dressed but barefoot. If their shoes are still on the premises, I can do soil analysis to see where they were before this.”

“Right.” Lestrade barks out to his team to search for three pairs of shoes, and they disperse.

“I’m done here; we’ll check the rest of the house for any other organic material that may be of use.” Sherlock sweeps out, leaving John to follow. He leads him up the stairs and into a front room that has clearly been used by squatters and addicts; there’s debris – food wrappers, condoms, syringes – strewn about.

“So, is this what you do? Come in, insult everyone, then collect samples the Yard’s team is perfectly capable of taking themselves?” John’s voice is light-hearted but there’s a challenge in it. Sherlock, rather than looking angry, looks surprised and almost pleased at John’s question.

“You’re right, they’re more than capable of the simplest connect-the-dots. But what they’ve missed, I guarantee, is that all three victims came from different parts of London the day they died. They were killed and held separately before the bodies were driven here – in a butcher’s delivery van – to be dumped in the wall. The plywood covering the hole didn’t come from this house: it’s recycled from a repair shop specializing in custom motorcycles.”

“But...that’s amazing. Why didn’t you tell all of this to Lestrade when we were down there?”

Sherlock disregards the question with a wave of his hand. “It’s more fun to be enigmatic.” He says it with a completely straight face but after a moment John bursts into laughter.

“You’re a git. Amazing, a bloody genius, but a git.” Sherlock joins in laughing and the two of them giggle for a moment, beside each other in the empty room. Their arms are brushing together and John feels almost high with the absurdity of the situation. He’s about to ask Sherlock if he can come along again next time when Sherlock calls out.

“John!” Sherlock’s arm is around him before he can register the urgency in the man’s voice as, with a crack like breaking concrete, a rotting beam falls to the ground where he just stood. John’s breath is coming in pants, Sherlock’s arm wrapped firmly around his chest, pinning his right arm to his side. He can feel the slight tremor in Sherlock’s arm, the heat of his body where it presses against him, and his exhale of relief against the back of his head. His own legs quiver and he tells himself it’s shock.

“Jesus, John. Are you alright?” Sherlock’s voice is demanding and perhaps a little fearful.

“I’m fine. I’m fine,” he answers with more conviction than he feels. He turns, Sherlock’s arm still around him, and smiles. “I think you just saved my life.”

“Anytime, doctor,” Sherlock’s eyes are warm with promise and John finds himself leaning in unconsciously. Sherlock is absolutely still, their faces just centimetres apart, his eyes on John’s face intently. John’s tilting his head just slightly and their bodies together feel right, Sherlock’s arm around his waist like it was always meant to be there and the only thought in his head is how very natural this all feels when a door bangs open behind them.

John jumps back and Sherlock looks away as behind them Lestrade clears his throat. “Right, sorry. Sherlock, we’ve found their shoes.”

John can’t read the expression in Sherlock’s face – anger, resentment, resignation, annoyance? He finds himself unable to meet his eyes and stands there, feeling foolish and angry and a little bit scared as Sherlock swoops out after Lestrade. He’s not sure if Sherlock expects him to follow but assumes, after that pathetic display, that he’d rather John keep his distance, so he ambles down the stairs, his leg aching, and hails a taxi.


	4. Chapter 4

Mary rushes into the tiny café, apologizing to Molly as she sits down. Molly waves it off; they all hate that they now have to schedule what used to be frequent, spontaneous get-togethers but timing has become increasingly difficult as they’ve gotten older. In fact, Sally’s been called into court to provide police testimony that day so she’s had to beg off. Mary knows she’ll miss hearing Sally’s gossip and news, but at the moment her mind’s uneasy and Molly’s willing ear might be more suited than Sally’s brusque, no-nonsense opinions. It’s not that she thinks something is _wrong_ , it’s just that something’s not quite _right_.

They settle in, chatting about work and their current woes. Mary’s up for a promotion at work, head librarian of the Marylebone branch, and she’s working not only her shifts and then some but creating development plans and project proposals on her own time. She relishes this part of her job: the creative, the chances to open up new stories, ideas, histories, to bring up questions and spark new interests. She knows their combined hours are putting a strain on her young marriage and looks forward to brief respites like this to help give her balance. For a short time each month, she and her friends can shake off their professional facades and share stories, complain, and laugh together.

She sips at her coffee slowly, listening to Molly tell her about a corpse that had come in that morning, dead of auto-erotic asphyxiation. “It’s sad, obviously,” Molly’s saying, “but when you stare at dead people every day you have to find humour where you can.” Mary smiles, weakly, and Molly clearly decides it’s time to discuss the elephant in the room. “What’s going on with you, love? You’ve been bleak and mopey since we got here. Trouble in paradise?”

“Molls, I don’t even know. I can’t think of anything wrong, anything different, beyond our shared hellish schedules, but John’s been. I don’t know. Distant, lately. Like he’s distracted. We haven’t, you know, in a while, but even when we’re just in the same room it’s like when he looks at me, he doesn’t really see me. I don’t know if I’m doing something wrong.”

“Maybe the honeymoon phase is finally over. You guys have known each other literally a lifetime, maybe you just need to recharge, to reconnect.”

“Maybe. He’s too young for a mid-life crisis, isn’t he?”

“Well, check back with me when he buys a motorcycle and we’ll see.” Mary laughs, despite herself, but can’t shake the feeling that it’s more than just a post-honeymoon slump.

++

John doesn’t bother going back to the office after he leaves the crime scene. He heads home, knowing Mary will be at work for two hours yet and that he’ll have the flat to himself. He feels shaky, confused, betrayed by his own body. And guilty. Guilty, most of all, for feeling a heat and the tight coil of pleasure for someone who isn’t his wife.

He’s not gay; he’s always been attracted to women, liked going out with them, liked being with them, liked sleeping with them. In the three years of their relationship he and Mary have had pleasurable, adventurous, occasionally silly, comfortable, loving sex. He looked at other women but mostly in an abstract way and while he noticed when a guy was good looking, his thoughts had never ventured further.

Until now. Now, he can still feel Sherlock’s arm tight across his chest, the lean line of his body and the hard angle of his hipbones. He thinks of Sherlock’s eyes lighting up at a puzzle, his lips, tight when he’s concentrating, quirked at the corner when he knows he’s found something. God, those lips, full and spit-slick where he’s licked them, breaking into full, true smile when John’s done something interesting.

He remembers the feeling of Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder, comforting or teasing, long pale fingers and a strong grip. He thinks of those fingers against his bare skin, the rough calluses dragging across his own scars, their length wrapped around his cock. He swallows roughly and for the moment allows his thoughts to drift, leaning back on the sofa and slipping one hand into his trousers. Earlier, their lips mere millimetres from each other, he had felt Sherlock’s breath on his mouth, had felt the heat of his skin. He thinks of what might have happened had Lestrade not walked in, of their lips pressed together, Sherlock’s tongue in his mouth, their hands on each other, frantic and hungry.

He feels himself hardening under his hand, is beginning to stroke lightly, when the front door opens. Frantically, he pulls his hand out, buttoning his trousers and standing up to see his wife walk in, arms laden with her usual totes of paperwork and books.

“Uh, hi. I...I didn’t expect you back so early,” he manages to stutter out. She eyes him, his flushed face, dishevelled clothes, and embarrassed posture. She sets her books down and walks over to where he stands behind the couch.

“Decided to bunk off early after coffee with Molly. Sandra’s covering me, she owes me.” She kisses him softly then palms him where he’s still aroused. “What have you been up to, then?” she wonders, her voice teasing.

He pulls back a bit, awkward and embarrassed. “I...um...nothing. Just decided to come home early also, that’s all.”

“Darling, you can’t fool me. And it’s all right, I know things have been a bit...lacking in that department lately. And I know it’s my fault, I’ve been working such mad hours and I’ve been so tired lately.” Mary looks apologetic and hopeful.

“God, Mary, no, it’s not your fault. We’ve both been distracted lately, it happens sometimes.”

She smiles, comforted and encouraged, and kisses him. He tries to kiss back with enthusiasm and it must be convincing because soon enough she’s unbuttoning his shirt and leading him, stumbling and giggling like they’re newly dating again, into the bedroom. He’s only half hard once she gets him naked but her body, familiar and warm, soon takes care of the rest. She straddles him and takes him inside her, rocking slow and deep as he holds her hips.

She looks down at him, eyes heavy and inviting, and asks him to touch her. He slides his hands up her body, cupping her breasts and flicking his thumbs across her nipples, and tries not to think about pale eyes and dark hair. Her breath is coming in pants now as she slips one hand between her legs. She touches herself and he feels her orgasm beginning, feels her tighten and contract around him, her thighs quivering around his hips. Her head’s tossed back, eyes closed, and it’s a sight that usually never fails to get him off but today he just can’t quite get there as his mind flickers between the woman in front of him, gorgeous and loving, and a man with an enigmatic stare and a generous smile.

Sated, Mary kisses him and disengages. Without a word, she kneels between his legs and takes him into her mouth. She’s a generous lover – they usually both are – and after three years she knows exactly what he likes. He closes his eyes, feeling the heat of her mouth and the pressure of her tongue. Unbidden, visions of another mouth – thin, with a deep bow in the upper lip – haunt his mind as he imagines Sherlock glancing up at him through thick curls. He comes biting his lip and he’s never felt so guilty.

++

“Can’t you take a hint? There’s a reason I’ve been ignoring your texts. I don’t want a new case. Now go away, I’m very busy.” Sherlock snips the stem of a hyacinth with a particularly violent slice of his shears.

Lestrade looks around the empty shop. “Yeah, I can see why, customers clamouring for your attention.” Sherlock narrows his eyes. “Listen, Sherlock, I know burglary isn’t your thing usually, but these ones are weird. And there are plants involved,” he says, in the wheedling tone parents use to convince their children that eating veg is fun.

Sherlock whirls on him. “I’m not your pet, to beckon at your will.”

“I don’t understand. Usually you’re all too happy to assist on cases with strange evidence. Not to mention to get a chance to insult Anderson. What’s going on?”

“I just....Fine. I’ll help. Where’s the most recent crime scene?”

++

Lestrade’s right; the crime is strange. Five burglaries and in each case a single thing taken. One perfectly ordinary orchid ( _dactylorhiza fuchsii_ , the common spotted orchid, Sherlock thinks, based on the description) in a mass-produced ceramic pot, one from each house. In the two previous burglaries, the orchid was found outside the house, very nearby, pot smashed and abandoned.

When Sherlock arrives Lestrade has a team searching the surroundings for the orchid. Sherlock drills the owner of the house, who admits to knowing nothing about the plant.

“It was a gift from my sister. She told me that having something to care for in my retirement might keep me from pestering Margaret – that’s my wife. She’s not the type to spend a lot of money; I’m sure it was just from a neighbourhood shop.”

At the scene, Sherlock finds a bit of soil spilt near the jimmied window used by the burglar to enter and exit. It’s completely consistent with commercial grade soil enriched for orchids and is available to every florist in the city.

He asks Lestrade if they’ve found any connections between the orchids – same seller, perhaps. “We don’t know the origins of all – not everyone could remember. But, at least three we do, and all three were bought in different places: one from a neighbourhood florist, one from a street vendor, and one from a Tesco.”

Sherlock paces in the front corridor, turning violently each time he reaches the door or the foot of the stairs. The Yard’s team avoids him, having learned to recognize his black mood. “Why take a perfectly boring orchid? Why smash it and abandon it after you’ve gone to the trouble of stealing it? Why? Why, why why?”

“Sherlock?” Sherlock spins around and Lestrade is startled by his manic expression. Usually strange cases and new puzzles delighted Sherlock and he swanned about a crime scene gleefully insulting everyone. Today, though, he seemed anxious and distracted, completely unable to provide answers and disconcerted by his own lapse. “We found the orchid.”

“Where?”

“An alley three houses down. Smashed like the others.” As he led Sherlock out of the house and down the street to the small alley, Lestrade could hear him muttering to himself.

Lestrade had cleared his team out to allow Sherlock space to work but almost called them back in when Sherlock just stood there, staring at the broken pottery and strewn soil, not taking samples, not examining the surroundings, just looking.

“Sherlock? Is everything...okay?”

Sherlock starts, as if being violently jerked back to the present. He doesn’t deign to answer Lestrade, just kneels down and begins his examination. Just like the others, this orchid is perfectly ordinary. Except – the soil is a bit off. He tastes a tiny bit and there’s something there, just on the back of his tongue, which he can’t quite put a finger on. It’s something – he knows it’s something – but he cannot think of what.

The pot has a weak blue glaze and he remembers a similar one at John’s apartment filled with an overgrown bunch of basil, sitting on the kitchen window. He knew Mary was thinking of starting a garden, but John was the cook – the herbs were his. The basil was thriving if in need of a bit of care and John knew heliotrope instantly. Where did he learn plants? Sherlock finds himself suddenly desperate to know who taught John to recognize plants, who guided his child’s hands in the rich dark soil. Grandparent, perhaps, he thinks, remembering the age of that well-thumbed almanac, in a place of pride nestled within his favourite childhood chapter books.

Staring at the orchid, he thinks of what flower he’ll bring John next, which might be his favourite. Most people are easy – the way they dress, the way they speak, all tell how ostentatious, how romantic, how humble they like their blooms. John, though, he can’t pin down. He’s tried the graceful lily, for the pure of heart, and the sweet, small heliotrope for devotion. Next, he thinks, a bold gladiolus, tall and proud. He’s debating between rich crimson and sunny yellow when Lestrade touches his shoulder.

“Sherlock? You sort of...glazed over there for a minute. I was asking if you’d found anything.”

Sherlock is horrified at his own inattention and his mind, betraying him with sentimental tangents. He stands and forces his mind back to the case. “The soil. I’ll need samples from the other two. And you should search the areas around the first two cases again, widening your perimeter. If he dumped these three, he dumped those ones too – maybe he’s just getting more impatient and that’s why we’re finding them closer.” He walks past Lestrade, leaving the alley. “Have the samples sent round to my flat – I’ll test them there. Text me when you find the others.”

“Sherlock, wait!” He pauses for a moment, glancing over his shoulder at Lestrade. “I just wanted to ask – you seemed distracted today – are you all right?”

“Of course, I’m fine. My mind is just on some current experiments.” It’s a weak lie and he knows Lestrade can see right through it; he hopes that he’ll leave it alone.

“Are you sure? Do you need to...talk about anything?” No such luck. Sherlock thinks of three different cutting responses, but hesitates. Surely, Lestrade – well, he is good with people. He might actually have advice. This particular _distraction_ is not one Sherlock’s felt often and previously he’d always been able to satisfy his curiosity quite easily; the subject’s never been quite so unattainable before.

Sherlock glances around, making sure the rest of Lestrade’s team is busy and out of earshot. “I don’t even know why I’m about to...” he takes a deep breath. “I do find myself rather distracted of late. I seem to have something, or rather someone, on my mind frequently. Constantly.”

“Oh god, are you about to ask me for advice on men?” Lestrade’s voice is incredulous; with a huff of disgust, Sherlock turns to leave. Lestrade, noticing his discomfort and embarrassment at admitting such a weakness, softens. “No, sorry, Sherlock, that was out of order. Say what you want to say, I’ll see if I can help.”

Hesitantly, Sherlock begins again. “I met someone, and he’s interesting, puzzling, and he thinks I’m brilliant. I don’t know why I cannot stop thinking about him. I’ve only known him a few months and everything I see reminds me of him.”

“Well, it sounds like you’re madly in love, I don’t see why this is a problem.” The look Sherlock gives him is one of pure disgust at his blatant stupidity; it’s the same look he wears at crime scenes when Anderson calls soil _sand_ or grit _dirt_. “Oh. He’s not available. Straight?”

“And married.”

“Oh. Oh, that is bad. Usually my advice for the love-struck is to lay your cards out, take a risk, but you can’t really do that here, can you? So, the way I see it, you have two options.”

“Does either of them end with me being able to concentrate again?”

“Probably not. You can either continue to see him, to pine and be miserable, but at least have his company. Or, you can go out, get smashingly drunk, and pick up someone who looks like him and see if that gets it out of your system.”

“Unsatisfactory on both counts.”

“Well, that’s the nature of love, isn’t it?” Lestrade claps Sherlock on the shoulder. “It’ll fade, in time.” Sherlock gives him a look full of misery and walks away.


	5. Chapter 5

There’s nothing for it. He’ll have to go over there. He has to put a stop to this – whatever this was. He needs to see Sherlock, to talk to him, to sort this – them – out. He’s jittery all morning and distracted, finding it difficult to pay attention his patients. His lunch break finally comes and he limps his way down Marylebone Street as quickly as he can.

Sherlock’s eyes as he bursts through the door of _Scientia Botanica_ are practically sparkling. “John! Hello, I didn’t know if I’d see you –”

“No, no. No.” John interrupts. “You are not happy to see me. You cannot be happy to see me, you can’t.” Sherlock tries to interrupt but now that he’s started John can’t stop talking. He paces back and forth in front of the desk, left hand clenched. “This, thing,” he gestures to the space between them, “it has to stop. It’s over. I’m married, so I can’t just. I just can’t.” He pauses to take a breath and Sherlock takes advantage of the pause.

“John, let’s just talk about this. Come into the back.” John nods abruptly and follows Sherlock into the storeroom.

Sherlock holds up a hand before John can get started again. “John, as far as I’m concerned there’s nothing here.”

“Oh. Oh, god, I’ve made a fool of myself, Jesus, Sherlock, you should have stopped me –”

“No, John, wait a moment. What I mean is we’ve done nothing,” he hesitates for a moment, “nothing untoward, nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Nothing to be ashamed of? Jesus, Sherlock, when I think about you every moment of every day? When I can still feel your body against mine? When I think of your hands, of...of your mouth when I touch my wife? Fuck, Sherlock, I at least have everything to be ashamed of.” Sherlock’s mouth goes dry. “Jesus, don’t just stand there, god, say something.”

“What do you want me to say, John? That I think about you? That having you constantly on my mind has made me completely useless? Because I don’t see how that’s going to help the situation.” He spits the words out, angry and frustrated. He’s keeping himself against the back wall, knowing he can’t trust his own body if John’s any nearer in the tight space. He wants to tell him to leave, to go before he does something they’ll both regret, but John makes the decision for him, stepping the two broad steps across the room, grasping Sherlock’s jaw, and forcing their mouths together.

The first kiss is desperate and hungry; there’s too much teeth and John’s fingers are pressing bruises on Sherlock’s jaw. John pulls back for a fraction of a second, his eyes wide, mind whirling, but before he can think, Sherlock pulls him back in. John’s cane clatters to the floor, but he barely notices. The second time their lips meet it’s still frantic but the way John leans into Sherlock, one hand at his shoulder and the other curled around his neck, is tender in a wondrous way. Sherlock’s hand slips under the bottom of John’s jumper, feeling the warm, slightly damp skin of his back, as John’s mouth opens and they breathe out, hot and shaky, together.

Sherlock feels John begin to pull away. “We shouldn’t…” his voice is a shaky whisper; the protest dies, incomplete. Sherlock pauses. This is John’s decision; it has to be, he’s the one with something to lose. “Goddamn it,” he breathes into Sherlock’s mouth, his eyes screwed tight and shoulders tense. Beneath Sherlock’s hand John’s body telegraphs his vacillation; his posture open and trusting but muscles taut and still. Sherlock skims his thumb along the back of John’s neck, savouring the feeling of short, bristly hairs and warm skin, ready to pull away and never touch him again. He’s about to remove his hand when John, as if sensing his intention, reaches up and grasps his hand, holding it in place. “I want you. God help me.”

Decision made, for better or worse, John finds Sherlock’s mouth again, forceful and determined. He kisses with his whole body and Sherlock thinks of wars and guns and decisions with no going back.

With their mouths still together, John’s tongue tracing the inner edge of Sherlock’s bottom lip, John slides his hands down Sherlock’s body. Sherlock can’t quite stifle the gasp as John’s fingertips brush over the sensitive spot at his waist and he can feel John start to smile with the pleasure of discovery. “Ticklish, then? I’ll remember that.” There’s promise implied and Sherlock doesn’t know if John even realizes what he’s said. Maybe he does, though, the what-ifs and the might-bes a glorious gamble.

Whatever it is, it’s John’s to decide; right now all Sherlock wants is him, here, and he’s not eager to remind them both that it might be the only time. He forces a stern note to his voice, growling, “you wouldn’t _dare_ ,” but his voice hitches at the end as John cups his arse and tilts their hips together. John groans at Sherlock’s gasp and ruts against him more deliberately. Sherlock narrows his eyes and, grasping John’s hips, forcefully pushes John against the back wall, pinning him in place.

John’s eyes widen, a smile breaking. “Should’ve known you’d like it rough. C’mon then.” His voice is deliberately teasing, challenging, with a shaky edge of lust. Sherlock can feel John’s rapid heartbeat in his wrists. He shoves his thigh between John’s legs, rocking up against him forcefully, feeling John’s hardness against him. “Jesus, Sherlock,” John moans and Sherlock captures the curse with his mouth. They rut against each other, frantic and hard, kissing and biting, gripping and pulling. Sherlock catalogues every sound John makes – laughs and moans and curses, pleased and lustful.

Sherlock releases John’s wrists and immediately John’s flipped them around, pushing Sherlock against the wall. His hands are moving between them, determined and steady as he pulls down Sherlock’s zip and now Sherlock’s the one fumbling at John’s waistband. With a huff of impatience, John unzips himself then slips his hand into Sherlock’s pants. Sherlock finds John’s cock, heavy and thick, and they begin to stroke together. John’s hand around Sherlock’s cock is warm, dry, and roughened at the fingertips and he thinks of his own hands, scarred and rough. The soft murmurs of encouragement John whispers assures him that John doesn’t mind.

They hear the creak and bang as the front door opens and they both hold their breath. John is biting his lip, eyes wide, but the glint of pleasure to the necessary secrecy gives Sherlock a prickle of joy in the back of his mind. The front is silent for a moment and John begins to move his hand again, forcing Sherlock to stifle a gasp.

“Sherlock?” a familiar voice calls from the store and they both go deadly still. “Are you here?” John’s face goes ashen as he hears his wife’s voice calling out, looking for the man he currently has pinned against the wall. Watching him, Sherlock feels a tightening in his chest as the full weight of his enormous betrayal shows on John’s face. In war, Sherlock’s quite sure, John’s never hesitated, has followed brothers-in-arms into fire and hell. He’s loyal to a fault and everything they’ve just done, every frantic, joyful, heady, perfect moment, goes against John’s very nature. He’s frozen, petrified, and it’s clearly up to Sherlock to manage the situation.

“I’ll be right up...Mary.” Sherlock hesitates over her name as he gently disengages from John, who seems to suddenly realize the state he’s in and hurriedly zips up. Sherlock straightens his own clothes and, throwing an imploring look at John, slips out the door.

++

“Hi, Mary. I was just –” he gestures to the back but doesn’t finish his sentence. _Just about to fuck your husband. Just ruining your life. Just falling more in love._

“That’s all right. Um. How’ve you been?” She’s holding her hands together, stiffly. Nervous. Her brow is furrowed slightly – upset, but not angry. There’s something on her mind, but he can tell she doesn’t _know_ anything about John’s feelings. She knows him well, though; she can tell something’s wrong.

“I’m fine. Why are you here?” His question comes out much brusquer than intended and he swallows, trying to control his own nerves. She looks puzzled, unsure of his question.

“I – well, I thought I’d get something for John. Some herbs, or something. He’s been...” she hesitates, choosing her words with circumspection, “distracted, lately. Cooking sometimes calms him down, so I thought maybe...” here she gestures toward the rack filled with small pots of thyme, parsley, rosemary, oregano.

“Of course. What did you have in mind?”

She smiles weakly. “You probably know better than I what he wants.”

He knows what she means, but the thought of John’s pleased laugh as he bit at his shoulder and his breathy moan when Sherlock slid his thumb up over the head of his cock twists his stomach. He wills himself to breathe normally. “He favours Italian flavours but has been thinking about trying more French cuisine lately. I would say rosemary – it’s essential for the sort of hearty, comforting food John prefers.”

“Of course.” She distractedly picks up the nearest rosemary plant, fiddling with the plastic stake inserted into the soil. She’s steeling herself to say something. “Has he...well, said anything to you? About what’s on his mind?”

Sherlock swallows uncomfortably, because what do you tell the woman whose husband you love when she asks what’s wrong? Mary notices and misinterprets his discomfort. “No, of course, he wouldn’t have. I’m sorry for asking. Sorry for making a fool of myself again.”

“No, it’s...fine. He hasn’t...” he finds himself unable to lie for once and finishes lamely, “I’m sorry.”

“No, I...I shouldn’t have asked. I’m worried, but we’ll move past it. We always do.” She wipes her slightly dampened eyes and places the rosemary on the counter. “What do I owe you?”

“No, on the house, please.” He can’t stomach taking her money, acting like this entire charade was an ordinary transaction. She nods her head in thanks and, with a goodbye, picks up the plant and turns to leave.

She’s halfway out the door when he works up the nerve to speak again. “Why don’t you ask John?”

She turns. Her shoulders are square, her face stoic. The only hint of emotion giving her away is a slight gleam to her eyes as she looks at Sherlock sadly. “I can’t do that. I can’t ask him if there’s something wrong. It’s too terrifying.”

“Why?”

The look she gives him reminds him of a wounded animal; it’s full of pain and fear and a desperate sort of hope. “Because what if there is?” As she walks out the door, rosemary plant held carelessly in one hand, he hears the back door slam and footsteps rapidly retreating.

++

John’s quick, even with his cane. By the time Sherlock catches up to him, he’s at the edge of Regent’s park, seeking the anonymous oblivion offered on rainy, deserted days like today. John is marching angrily up a hill, his cane stabbing into the gravel on each step, shoulders heaving with the effort. “John! John, for god’s sake, will you stop?”

John whirls around angrily. “Why, Sherlock, why? I think it’s perfectly clear why I can’t stop, why I can’t talk to you, be with you – near you – anymore.”

“John, just wait a minute –”

“Wait? Sherlock, you heard her. You heard my wife, my loving, wonderful wife who hasn’t done anything wrong, who’s been amazing. You heard her; you heard the pain I’m causing.” Sherlock’s standing in front of him now, arms hanging uselessly at his sides, desperately wishing he could offer a solution that would cause no pain. Clever as he is, he knows it’s impossible. “I just wish...I want...Jesus.”

“What do you want, John?” Sherlock’s voice is husky, lower than he had intended. Despite the pain coiling in his gut, the look John gives him sends thrills through his body better than any narcotic. It’s pained and lustful and absolutely screams _don’t be so oblivious_.

“You, Sherlock.” His voice is barely a whisper. “I want you. But I can’t. This ends now.” He reaches out, his hand steady, hovering just over Sherlock’s lapel like he wants to grab it, to pull Sherlock to him. Sherlock holds his breath, willing John to do just so and knowing if he does Sherlock will not be able to let him go. John touches the wool with two fingers, briefly, then pulls them back, whispers a goodbye, and walks away without looking back.

Sherlock stands there, on a deserted gravel path in the middle of a hill, the drizzling rain soaking into his clothes and streaming down his hair. He stands for a long time, watching the space that used to contain the only man he’d ever love.


	6. Chapter 6

Mary’s dead on her feet. She’s been working too hard, she knows – with the economy, the public library system is strained and everyone who is still employed is working overtime. All she wants when she gets home is a good meal, a long bath, and a glass of wine. The flat’s empty – John called her to say he was meeting Bill after work for a few drinks.

She heats up some leftover chicken soup and pours herself a glass of shiraz. By the time she’s finished with the second glass, the bath is full, steaming and inviting. She eases herself in, the hot water flushing her skin bright pink, and settles her shoulders into the curved enamel. She wishes, like in a clichéd chick lit book, that the water would wash away her stresses, the heat melting her tension and her worries vanishing into the mist.

Instead, the silence of the tiled room and the headiness of the wine brings what is most worrying her to the forefront. Hidden under the paperwork, the long hours, and all the other trifling worries of her occupation is John. The man she loves and his puzzling behaviour, which she has been avoiding thinking about in order to avoid any conclusions.

When she had given John the rosemary two nights ago, he had received it with a soft smile and a kiss to her cheek, then used it on the roast chicken he cooked them for dinner. She had watched as he gently crushed the sprigs between his palms, releasing the oils and the earthy scent, and as he studied the small, handwritten care label included. He smiled, seemingly unconsciously, fingering the small slip of paper, as he read Sherlock’s brusque and scientific instructions. He had slept curled away from her that night and between them she felt a vast distance.

She knows they should talk about it, but neither of them have ever been good at voicing their emotions, preferring to show each other how they feel through the dozens of silent signs known to long-time lovers. A caress of her cheek, a tug on her hair, a press of lips against her inner wrist – all this and she knew he loved her. Of late, his kisses have been formal, his hands distant, his eyes distracted and his smiles not for her. She can feel herself flounder as he pulls away.

She’s known him all her life, practically. A constant: a constant ache, a constant love. When he was wounded, the fear of losing him, of him gone before they had a chance to be an _us_ , petrified her. She feels that fear wash over her again now. Before, it was all or nothing – take the risk, throw caution to the wind, all the old clichés of uncertain love – but now, there’s so much more to lose.

++

She’s already curled up in bed, head fuzzy and comfortably distracted, mind in that strange place on the edge of sleep, when the door creaks open. John sits on his side of the bed to remove his shoes; she reaches up with one heavy hand to stroke his back. She feels him stifle a flinch and then deliberately relax into her hand and her stomach drops. She pulls her hand back and curls up a bit tighter on the bed.

She feels more than hears John take a deep breath and the dread in her gut twists. He starts speaking and before the words even make any sense she knows _this is it_.

“Mary, I don’t even know how to say this. I’m not even sure if I should; this might be selfish, saying it out loud. But I...I think I need to.” He’s still sitting, back towards her, on his side of the bed. His side – his side for three years and more, comfortable and familiar, his body next to hers just like it’s been hundreds of nights before but this, this night, is different than the rest. The end of the rest.

“I love you. I do. I thought, when you first said you’d be mine, that I’d never want for anything else. And I know, now, that you are enough. But I made a mistake. I made a mistake and I fell for someone. Someone else.” Mary feels her throat closing up; she had suspected, in the back of her mind, in the same place where monsters lurk and phobias crowd out rational sense, that place that adults suppress in order to live and forget that the world is a dark and painful place. She had suspected but when she hears the words they shatter around her.

“I made a mistake but he – we’re – it’s over.” He. _He_. The word crackles in her mind and she knows, immediately, whose dark curls and enigmatic smile have won her husband’s affections. She had hoped, maybe, a nurse from work, an anonymous patient, someone she’s never met, someone she can’t imagine grinning at her husband like he’s Christmas. Instead it’s someone who gives him something – many things – she can’t and someone who outshines the comfortable domesticity she offers. She wants to think it doesn’t matter his gender, but she knows it does. Because Sherlock’s so marvellous John’s not just cheating, he’s rethinking his entire sexuality. How can she compete?

“I ended it. I’m staying, Mary. I’m staying with you. You’re my best friend and that’s been enough before. It’ll be enough again.”

He trails off. She doesn’t know what to say and maybe it’s cowardly, but she keeps her eyes closed and her breathing even. She can’t talk to him right now, with his voice breaking with pain and hesitation evident in every sentence. He’d said he’d stay, that he had chosen to stay with her, but she can tell he’s willing himself, doing the right thing, and she feels for the first time in their relationship like an obligation.

She feels the bed dip as John turns, stays very still and apparently her ruse works. “Oh, no, Mary, don’t be sleeping. You can’t. I can’t say that again, I just can’t.” He reaches one hand out, centimetres from her shoulder, as if to shake her awake, and Mary can feel the heat of his hand, can feel the very air quiver with tension as she waits. Will he? Will he ‘wake’ her, repeat himself, assure her he’s chosen not to end their marriage even as it falls apart? The moment seems interminable and Mary feels like she’s been robbed of all choice in her own life.

After an eternity, he pulls his hand back. Cowardice or compassion, she’s not sure, but she’s thankful nonetheless. This revelation – her husband, her life, her best friend, in love with someone else – she needs to process on her own. Without John and his contrition, his pain and struggle, staring her in the face. If she has to talk to him now she’ll forgive him. She’ll forgive him before she knows her own feelings and she knows this decision she needs to make with a clear head.

He lies down beside her, stiff and distant. When she feels the rhythmic rise and fall of his breath even out, she slips out of bed. Curled on the sofa, she’s unsure what to do. She cries; it solves nothing. Stifling her tears, she calls Molly who wakes, confused, but listens to her calmly recount John’s confession. Molly’s outrage on her friend’s behalf helps Mary keep from raging herself. Molly’s all for Mary storming back into the bedroom and kicking John out, but Mary’s not so sure yet. Decisions made in the middle of the night on wine and frustration rarely end well. She tells Molly she’s going to sleep on it although she thinks she already knows her answer.

She slips back into bed. _Maybe_ , she thinks, _maybe when I wake it’ll all be a dream_.

++

Sherlock prunes back the branches on a small potted Japanese maple. _Acer palmatum_ , he thinks, _cultivar Atropurpureum, prized for its wine-red leaves_. He takes his time, careful with the delicate leaves, even though there are a lot of preparations to finish that morning. He has a contact in the flower import business who’s agreed to watch the shop for him and maintain the hardier stock.

The door to the shop bangs open and he’s about to snip something about the closed sign on the door when he turns to see Molly standing in the doorway, fists clenched in obvious anger.

“You did it anyway, then, did you?” Sherlock averts his eyes, hands suddenly still. “Jesus, you bastard. They were happy, you know? What right do you have to ruin that?”

“Molly, I –”

“Oh, don’t you dare try to defend yourself. I don’t want to hear it. John’s a good man. He’d never –” She breaks off, choked with anger.

“On that point we agree. John’s the best man I’ve ever known.” He says it quietly; he doesn’t expect her to understand, in the pain she’s feeling for her best friend, how he’s found himself quite unexpectedly in love. She looks away from him, uncomfortable. “If it’s any consolation, I’m leaving.”

“Leaving?”

“Removing myself from the equation. I’ll be gone for a few months; that should be more than enough time for...for them to patch things up.”

“That’s very...”

“It’s not noble, it’s not honourable. It’s cowardice. I can’t stay in this city when I see him on every corner.” He tries to state it matter-of-factly but his voice wavers a bit at the end.

He can tell Molly’s thrown by this, that she had expected more of a fight. Her fists have relaxed and now she’s looking distinctly uncomfortable. “I...Sherlock, I do hope you can find someone else, someone you can be happy with.”

“I don’t believe that’s a possibility. Seems it never was. Now, I have a lot to prepare before I leave.” He returns to his pruning and Molly takes it for the obvious dismissal that it is. Once the door closes behind her, his hands still as he takes a shaky breath before forcing himself to continue his preparations.

++

Mike and Sally had invited them weeks ago to brunch; John wishes they could beg off, but he’s trying to act normal, not sure of what Mary heard the night before. If she knows nothing, he’s not sure he’ll ever work up the nerve to say it again and he knows he’ll hate himself if he doesn’t. She’d been a bit distant and quiet that morning, but they’ve both been tense lately and he knows she’s stressed over work.

He feels sick not knowing.

They’re greeted jovially by their friends but the meal is quiet and tense. Sally’s trying to keep the conversation going, talking about a new play in the West End that they might all go see together, and John’s doing his best to keep up but Mary’s silence at the other end of the table occupies his mind. There’s a pause in the conversation; Sally looks at Mike imploring him to say something. He’s returning a wide-eyed glance of bewilderment when Mary stands up.

“Right. I have to go. I can’t –”

John rises from his seat and starts to come around the table toward her. “Mary, don’t...”

“No. I can’t stay here, I can’t look at you.” He touches her arm and she shoves him off, strong in her anger. “Don’t fucking touch me. I can’t stand you touching me, can’t you see that? Sally, Mike, I’m sorry.” She grabs her bag and rushes out the door.

“What the fuck was that?”

“I fucked up. God, I have to go and talk to her.” He follows her outside, leaving Mike and Sally stunned, still at the table. Sally recovers and pulls her husband toward the door, where they stand and watch their friends’ marriage fall apart.

Mary’s angrily wiping away tears as she hastens toward the street. She ignores John as he calls after her, but he finally catches up and steps in front of her path. “Mary, please, don’t walk away. I’m not leaving you. I’m not.”

“Jesus, John, don’t you understand? If you have any respect for me at all, that’s exactly what you will do. I can’t...I can’t stand next to you pretending it’s all fine when I know. When I know you love someone else.” John’s stunned into silence. He had thought, before, that it was his decision to make – to stay or to go. He had known Mary would be hurt but he thought maybe, in time, she would forgive him.

“This isn’t what I want.”

“You’re a good man, John. You can lie to yourself but for god’s sake don’t lie to me. All I ever wanted was for you to be happy. If I could, I wanted to be the cause of that happiness. But I can’t be with you knowing that you had something more and settled for me. I won’t be your second best, John.” She touches his temple with two fingers, stroking the greying hair, and then kisses him on the cheek, turns, and leaves.

John watches his best friend and the only life he’d been able to imagine for himself walk away.

++

He’s still standing in the driveway when Sally and Mike join him. Sally looks like she wants to punch him. “Jesus, John, you’re a shit.”

“God, I know. Don’t you think I know? This wasn’t something I fucking wanted to happen.”

Mike interrupts before Sally can go off on John again. “Who is she? Is it someone we know?”

John takes a breath, looks his friend in the eye, and says, “You’ve met him. Briefly. Sherlock – he did the flowers at our wedding.”

“The florist?” Mike looks taken aback, but recovers quickly. “I didn’t know you were –”

He’s interrupted by Sally, who’s moved way past the gender issue. “Oh my god. You met him _at your wedding?_ Jesus, John, that is so not on, for so many fucking reasons.”

Mike lays one hand on John’s shoulder. “Sally, don’t you feel –”

“Michael fucking Stamford don’t you Sally me. I’ll say my piece.” Mike wisely holds his tongue in the face of his wife’s anger. “John, you and Mary are my oldest and dearest friends. Now, despite the fact that what’s happening here is completely out of order,” she pauses, steeling herself, and John holds his breath, “I just want you – both of you – to be happy. It may be a long time before Mary’s happy again but if this is what you want, if he can make you happy, then, well, I’m with you.”

Mike cuts in. “Can he make you happy, John?”

John says out loud what he hadn’t yet admitted to himself. “He makes me feel alive. More than I’ve ever felt, maybe. When I’m with him, I’m myself and more than myself. If he’ll have me then, yeah, I think I’ll be happy. Mike, Sally, I don’t know what to say –”

“Don’t fucking thank us, John. Just...what can we do?” Sally reluctantly offers.

“Can I borrow your car?”

Mike grins. “I’ll drive.”

++

“Go left up here. There it is! Stop!” John opens the door before the car’s fully stopped and barrels out. Watching him run into _Scientia Botanica_ , Mike smiles fondly.

“It’s a bit romantic, you have to admit.”

“Mike, it’s shitty and complicated and going to hurt a lot of people. But that’s what love is, I suppose.”

“You big softy.” He leans over and kisses his wife behind the ear.

“And you’re a hopeless fool.”

Inside, John finds the store empty. “Sherlock! For god’s sake, Sherlock, come out!” The door to the stockroom opens and John finds himself lunging forward, only to stop short when the man who walks out is familiar, but not Sherlock. “Detective Inspector? What are you...? Do you know where Sherlock is? I need to see him.”

“Get in line, git’s not answering my texts. I suspect this has something to do with it.” He holds out a printed itinerary showing Sherlock on a plane to Costa Rica that afternoon. “Hang on, aren’t you his doctor friend? John, right?”

“Yeah, that’s right.” He stares, uncomprehending, at the paper in his hand. “Jesus, what has he done?”

The desperation in John’s voice sparks something in Lestrade’s memory. “God, you’re him, aren’t you?” John, miserably, nods. “But you’re married.”

“I left her. She left me. It doesn’t matter, it’s over. I just...I need to find him.”

Lestrade considers, then nods. “Okay. Let’s get ourselves to Heathrow.”

On the way out the door, John grabs a single bloom; vibrant yellow, caught in a ray of brilliant sun cutting through one window, it seems to be waiting for him. He clutches it in his hand and tries not to think of what will happen if he can’t get to Sherlock in time.

++

John, normally a patient and polite driver, is swerving through traffic more manically and desperately than an escaping criminal. In the backseat, Mike and Sally yell out hazards and tell John when there’s a gap in traffic he can take advantage of, while in the passenger seat Lestrade is receiving text updates from a friend in dispatch with the clearest traffic paths.

John’s just turned down a one-way street when he’s forced to throw on the brakes. A few dozen cars are gridlocked in front of him due to a crash. He tries to reverse, but another car has already pulled up, blocking him. The crash must have just happened; there are no police or emergency vehicles yet. John knows he should offer his help, but he can’t help but feel frustration for the delay caused. Sherlock’s ticket was one-way; he doesn’t know when he’ll get a chance to see him again, to plead his case.

John slams his hand against the steering wheel and curses. Lestrade’s already called in the accident and is telling him the police will be there soon, but John feels himself giving into despair. In one last, desperate attempt, he dials Sherlock’s number. Sherlock rarely answers his mobile, preferring to text, but John’s sent a dozen already and he hasn’t responded.

It’s rung six times and he’s ready to disconnect when he hears Sherlock say his name, wearily, cautiously. “John.”

“Sherlock! I need to see you, to talk to you, I want to say –” he’s babbling and Sherlock cuts him off brusquely.

“There’s nothing to talk about, John. Goodbye.” Just as Sherlock disconnects, John hears an echoing, blaring car horn. He stares at the phone, despondently, when suddenly the car horn blares again, and John realizes the first pair wasn’t an original and an echo, but the same honk. Granted, it could have been another car, but what are the odds of two people sounding their horns at exactly the same time in two different parts of London?

He slams his car door open and jumps out, to the surprise of the rest of the car’s inhabitants. He desperately searches the lines of cars in front of them; it’ll be a cab, Sherlock always takes cabs, but there are at least a dozen in the traffic jam. He’s pulling out his phone to try to text one more time when he notices one cab, in the side lane near the crash, slowly and repetitively reversing and pulling out. It’s negotiating its way into a side alley. John remembers Sherlock, at that first dinner, telling Molly in concise terms a better route from her flat to the morgue, complete with street and alley names and current construction conditions. When they had marvelled, Sherlock had said it was necessary for his job to know all the streets of London. John had at first thought he meant for deliveries but later learned it was more for his consulting than anything else.

If anyone would be trying a tight alley as a shortcut, he realizes, it would be Sherlock. Without a word to Lestrade, Sally, and Mike, he runs to meet the cab. Dodging between cars, ignoring honking horns, John tries yelling for Sherlock, but the cab continues to negotiate the tight space it needs to pull out of in order to make the alley. Just as the cabbie turns the wheel, ready to make the final advance, John reaches the cab and pounds on the window. Sure enough, there in the backseat is Sherlock, looking more surprised than John ever thought he’d see him.

He sees Sherlock’s eyes flicker over him, taking in his desperate, dishevelled state, then, with a quiet comment to the cabbie, Sherlock opens the door and steps out.

They stare at each other for a brief moment before they start speaking together. When Sherlock says John’s name, his voice is full of quiet pain and not a little confusion. John finds himself surprised that Sherlock, who notices everything about everyone, doesn’t seem to understand why John is there.

He stops him with a touch, one hand on Sherlock’s chest, over his heart. “Sherlock, I can do this. I want to do this.” His voice is quiet over the tightness in his throat. Sherlock doesn’t respond for a moment and John feels a hideous sense of dread and doubt. “I mean, if you still –”

“John, don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock says, curling one hand around John’s neck and pulling him close. Their lips meet and in his stomach John feels the lively thrill of exhilaration. It may be an addiction, but he knows now that his life isn’t quite complete, isn’t quite right without the sharp edge of danger he tastes on Sherlock’s lips, without the heady buzz of uncertainty of an unforeseeable future.

Sherlock pulls away, hand still cool against the back of John’s neck, and touches his other hand to John’s, where he’s clutching, not his cane, but the flower. The stem is a bit crushed but the bloom, hearty and sunny, is still open and fresh. “Told you it was psychosomatic.” John laughs, surprised – he hadn’t even noticed, in his single-minded pursuit, leaving his cane behind earlier. Sherlock grins, fond and indulgent, and John hopes he can keep doing things to make Sherlock smile like that for the rest of his life.

He holds the flower out to Sherlock. “Here. It’s yours anyway, I picked it up at the shop, I don’t even know why.”

Sherlock smiles again, this time a bit knowing and rueful, and takes the flower. “I should have known. Daffodils – your favourite.”

“My favourite,” John repeats, as he pulls Sherlock in for another kiss.


	7. Epilogue

Sherlock is gratified to see how well John fits into 221b. Sherlock makes room for his few possessions: clothes in the wardrobe and books stacked on the shelves next to the mantle. John just grins at the skull and feeds the carnivorous plant flies. When Sherlock tries to sneak home a tank full of hissing cockroaches, John just mildly asks that they not be placed too close to the breadbox.

“Camel spiders, remember?” he says with a fond grin, mouth quick to press a kiss to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “Nothing you can bring home will scare me after those things.”

John jokes about everything moving a bit quickly – moving into the flat only days after proclaiming his love in the middle of a traffic jam – and Sherlock says it’s nonsense, they’ve known each other for months. Besides, now they have years to get to know each other. They begin right away. John takes his tea with a bit of milk, no sugar, and Sherlock with honey. Sherlock likes to play Elgar and Mussorgsky on his violin and John favours his version of Dvorak’s Serenade in Strings in E Major. They both love it best when Sherlock plays his own tunes, often experimental and half-finished but full of emotion. They linger in bed and study each other’s bodies, learning the secrets of their scars.

John doesn’t join Sherlock at every crime scene – he does have a job still, after all – but he occasionally comes along, his doctor’s opinion entirely unnecessary and mocked by Anderson but his presence welcomed by Lestrade, who notices that Sherlock is more tolerable, even kinder, and more apt to explain his deductions when John is along. Sherlock hasn’t yet tired of the adoring audience that John provides and John rewards him with breathless smiles and eyes that promise more when they get home.

Sherlock buys John Julia Child’s _Mastering the Art of French Cooking_ and John starts by making them boeuf bourguignon. Luckily, the stew only improves as it cooks, because it gets left in the oven for three extra hours when Lestrade calls them to a crime scene. All three of them come back to Baker Street, Lestrade helping to carry the five boxes of broken, unfired pottery found on the scene, to the heavenly smell of rich, hearty stew. Lestrade begins inviting himself back more frequently after that and Sherlock finds that he rather enjoys having friends.

++

Turns out leaving your wife for another man, a man you’ve only known a bare few months, is excellent gossip fodder and John, who’s always so well-liked, finds it difficult not to care. Some of his friends – their friends, his and Mary’s – stick with them both, like Sally and Mike, but other friends splinter away, their conversation when John runs across them stilted and distant. Bill, after a bit of awkwardness, has grown to like Sherlock and comes by the flat sometimes for takeaway and beers. Molly won’t speak to either of them at all. Sherlock watches John’s aching, pained that he can’t help.

Once everything’s explained to her, Harry won’t forgive John for weeks, not until Mary promises she’ll still be her friend and Sherlock tells her he’ll help her pick out a tarantula for her birthday. Joan and Ned don’t understand at first; they’re not unaccepting, but they both find it difficult to move past how happy John and Mary had been. John tries to explain that it was never about unhappiness, it was about something _more_ , more than contentment, more than comfort, and more than love, even. They don’t understand, but then they didn’t know why he needed to go all the way to Afghanistan when any surgery or hospital in London would have been happy to have him.

++

John’s the bravest man Sherlock knows, and he tells him so. John laughs ruefully and tells him it’s easy to confuse bravery with stupidity.

“No, John, bravery’s the right word. It takes some strength to walk away from the life you know for the unknown.”

“It’s a good thing I like a gamble, then,” John answers, lightly, but his smile is sincere and thankful.

++

John comes home one day to find Sherlock staring, silent and with murderous intensity, at a man dressed in a three-piece suit. The man introduces himself as Mycroft –

“My meddling brother,” Sherlock interrupts, “who has ever so unnecessarily decided to drop by and give me his opinion on the way I live my life. As if I needed his approval.”

“Right, then.” John can feel the sibling tension in the room and thanks god Harry is so much younger than him. “Tea?” He gives Mycroft the least-chipped mug they have and Sherlock takes his own with a scowl. John sits on the arm of Sherlock’s chair and watches as the two continue their odd staring contest. They seem to have an entire conversation with just facial expressions (scowls of displeasure on Sherlock’s part and bemused smiles on Mycroft’s).

Finally, finishing his tea, Mycroft stands, looks at John, appraisingly, then, touching Sherlock softly on the shoulder, says, “he’ll do. Be good,” and leaves. Sherlock’s in a foul mood for the rest of the night, until John finally cajoles him to bed and coaxes it out of him with slow, lazy kisses and dragging, deliberate touches.

++

The divorce takes a few months to finalize; the proceedings are amicable if distant. They meet in person only a few times, usually with solicitors present, to go through the details. John gives Mary everything, including the flat, which she eventually sells to move across London. She still arranges for half the money to go to John. The final time they meet, to sign the documents, John hesitantly suggests they go for coffee afterward. Mary accepts with a familiar soft smile.

Mary looks well, if a bit tired, which she assures him is from increased responsibilities at the library with her recent promotion. He congratulates her, knowing well how hard she had worked for it. The first few minutes are filled with formalities: shuffling of menus and ordering, asking about family and each other’s general health and well-being. There’s an awkward pause as they wait for their order and they both feel relief when the waitress sets down their drinks.

Mary takes a long draught of hers, as if gathering strength, before words, clearly something she’d been hoping to say for a while, tumble out. “John, I meant what I said that day: I do want you to be happy more than anything. I won’t lie; I question my decision constantly, wondering if I could have learned to be content with you still with me, knowing, well, what I knew. It never would have quite been enough again, I think.”

Unable to respond, John just nods. Mary smiles and touches his hand gently across the table. “And I see you now and you look good – happy – and you’re not even using your cane.”

John barks a short laugh and touches his thigh. “Yeah, that’s a long story.”

“It’s good though. You seem so – alive. There’s just this air about you. It reminds me of some of the pictures of you from Afghanistan. Determined, fulfilled. It’s different than you were with me.”

John furrows his brow. “Mary, you know it was never about happiness. I was happy with you, genuinely happy. And I do love you.”

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Mary nods. “I know, I know all that. I suppose that makes it a bit easier. And a bit harder.” She laughs, ruefully. “Sometimes I wish I could hate you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be – you’re far too decent for anyone to hate. It’s one of the things I always loved about you.” She looks away, distracted by memories.

John reaches on hand out, as if to take hers, but falters. “How are you doing, really? Are you – is there anyone..?”

“I’m moving on. There’s no – I’m not ready for anyone else. And I lost my best friend, too, you know, that’s not easy.”

“God, Mary, I know. The number of times I’ve wanted to just call you up to talk...” he trails off, staring at his hands.

Mary smiles, but it’s a bit sad and doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I know. I hope we can get back to being friends again, someday. I don’t think I can, quite yet. But someday. You’ve been far too big a part of my life, John Watson; I can’t let you go completely.”

John nods, a lump swelling in his throat. After a pause, they move on to other, less fraught topics. John tells her about his work at the surgery, and though he alludes to some of the cases they’ve worked, he carefully avoids Sherlock. Mary fills him in on the details of her promotion and talks about her brother, who’s moving to Australia. They both laugh over Harry’s most recent antics, which include a new obsession with lizards and a fervent wish to add an iguana to her growing menagerie.

Outside the shop, as they begin to part ways, John squeezes Mary’s hand briefly. “Take care of yourself, will you? Please.”

She smiles, steps in, and kisses him on the cheek. “I will. I’ll be okay, I really will. You keep yourself safe.” He assures her he will and with a last smile they part.

A few nights later, when he receives the final, signed and notarized divorce papers in the mail, John cries in bed with Sherlock’s arms around him. He feels a huge part of his life end and with it a version of himself he had wanted so badly to be. Sherlock kisses the back of his neck and strokes his chest until his sobs are spent.

++

They have no immediate plans to enter a civil partnership, despite Lestrade’s gentle ribbing and Mycroft’s more pointed hints, but John does think about legal protections and medical decisions. With their lives, such issues cannot be ignored. He’s not quite ready to be someone’s husband again, though, so for the time being they settle for listing each other as emergency contacts within medical files.

Life isn’t the movies and things don’t always go smoothly. John worries that Sherlock will tire of him, and sometimes Sherlock fears it too. They argue and hurt each other, sometimes, and don’t always know how to make up in words. There’s uncertainty and there’s fear and sometimes their lives are in peril but there’s also love and tenderness and excitement and an absolute overabundance of flowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It may not be that true to character, but I figured Sherlock would probably know not only the origins, Latin names, and possible uses for flowers, but perhaps also their ascribed ‘meanings.’ The meanings come from Wikipedia and www.aboutflowers.com so I take no responsibility if you’ve heard otherwise for any particular bloom.
> 
> \- John’s boutonniere of lilac to symbolize first love, innocence.  
> \- Mary’s bouquet of lilacs, daisies, chrysanthemums for first love, innocence, loyal love, purity, (yellow mums can mean ‘slighted love’ so perhaps some foreshadowing there?)  
> \- Cheating man’s bouquet included peonies which can stand for shame or bashfulness  
> \- Sherlock’s first guess for John’s favourite is a lily which can mean purity  
> \- Sherlock brings John and Mary garden heliotrope which stands for devotion.  
> \- Molly’s favourite is the hyacinth, which signals sincerity.  
> \- Sherlock thinks of bringing John gladiolus, which stands for strength of character  
> \- John’s favourite are daffodils meaning chivalry, respect, and uncertainty. When he gives it to Sherlock it means ‘return my affection’
> 
> The search for John’s favourite flower was shamelessly stolen from Chocolat.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for Floriography](https://archiveofourown.org/works/616164) by [moonblossom graphics (moonblossom)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom%20graphics)




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